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

  Walking in this manner he felt he now had a much better feel for the army. Infantry, men and women, would call out or bow for his attention and he would listen to their comments. Often they were only looking for reassurance that they were doing the right thing – a reassurance he had no reservations in providing. As the days passed he saw an ever greater need for such comfort … or, dare he say, hope. Was this the great secret of leading any revolution? That really all anyone needed was the assurance, the faith, that they were doing the right thing? At least Ivanr felt in his heart that their goal was desirable. Perhaps that was all he needed.

  At night Martal, and sometimes the cavalry commander Hegil, visited after the evening meal. These informal command meetings were quiet and uncomfortable, the memory of Beneth still too raw. Mainly Ivanr asked Martal questions about the strategic aim of the campaign. Apparently this amounted to marching on Ring and defeating the Imperial Army before its walls.

  ‘Very … ambitious,’ was Ivanr’s comment. ‘You know you will be facing the flower of the Jourilan aristocracy. Hundreds of heavy cavalry who fight with lance and sword. They will mow down these pike formations just by weight and shock.’

  ‘They may,’ Martal allowed.

  ‘What of you, Hegil? You know what we’ll be facing.’

  The aristocrat leaned back on the cushions, sipped his cup of honeyed tea. The man was nearly bald, his hair all rubbed off from wearing his helmet for most of his adult life. ‘Yes, Ivanr. These won’t be lights, or lancers. But we’ve known what it would come down to. From the beginning Beneth knew. He and Martal worked up a strategy to support the pike squares.’

  ‘And that is?’ He regarded Martal.

  Her short black hair gleamed with sweat and oil. She shrugged, her mouth turned down. ‘We’ll be bringing our own fortress.’

  He eyed her, waiting for more, but she would not raise her gaze. Was this all he was to get? Should he push now, in front of Hegil? She may think nothing of outright refusing him … Very well. He’d wait. Push again tomorrow.

  Soon after that Hegil cleared his throat, and, bowing to Ivanr, left for his own tent. Martal rose as well. ‘Please,’ Ivanr invited. ‘Won’t you stay a little longer?’

  She nodded stiffly, but sat. He studied her more closely now while she kept her gaze averted: her smashed nose, the scars of sword cuts on her forearms and the marks of heavy blunt blows to her cheek. Where had this woman gained her military training? Surely not in any Jourilan school, nor among the Dourkans. Yet she had obviously seen fighting all her life.

  ‘You are not of Fist, or Jasston, or Katakan. Where are you from?’

  A smile of nostalgia touched her mouth, but she was still looking away when she spoke. ‘I was born in a minor city named Netor on the Bloorian plains.’

  ‘Bloor … ?’

  ‘I am Quon Talian by birth. What you would call Malazan.’

  Ivanr did not know how to react. All the gods! Should this get out … No wonder the distance. The air of mystery surrounding this Black Queen served a good purpose. ‘I’m … amazed,’ he managed. She was the enemy. The grasping foreigners who would steal this land from them – or so ran the common wisdom.

  ‘How came you …’ But of course.

  She was nodding. ‘Yes. The invasion. I grew up the daughter of a minor landholder on the border with a neighbouring country. There were always raids and clashes for control of territory. I experienced my first battle – seven of them against five of us – when I was thirteen. Shortly after that I ran away to join the Imperial Army. I was a captain with the Sixth Army when we landed on Fist.’

  ‘And you … deserted?’

  If the woman was offended, she did not show it. Her expression turned more grim as she studied the far tent wall. ‘You’ve heard the stories, haven’t you? Greymane, Stonewielder, denounced by Malazan Command. Betraying the army, or some such nonsense.’

  Or consorting with the Stormriders to undermine the Korelri.

  She shrugged. ‘In any case, I was too vocal in my support for him. When he was ousted I had to flee, or face the knife.’ She shrugged again. ‘That’s about it. I wandered, was unable to find transport out of the subcontinent. An attempt to travel south overland brought me to Beneth. And he saved my life.’

  ‘I see,’ Ivanr breathed. What more could one say to such a tale? Dear gods, are you no more than manipulators of chance and fate? No wonder so far her tactics had defeated the Jourilan. Ivanr knew his own land was too tradition-bound in its methods, too tied to known ways of doing things. This woman came trained in a tradition infamous for its pragmatic embrace of the unconventional. These Malazans would adapt whatever worked; and in Ivanr’s eyes that was to be admired, even though such flexibility and adaptation served them ill here in these lands – leaving them Malazan in name and no more.

  Martal bowed and left soon after, and Ivanr let her go. He set the revelation far back in his mind – no hint could be given to anyone – and part of him, the tactician, couldn’t help but admire how in a single stroke the admission, the intimacy of the secret, had entirely bought his trust.

  And he tried not to dwell on the conversation until word came to the Army of Reform of a second Malazan invasion.

  Some days later a runner summoned Ivanr to the command tent. There he found Martal and lesser officers, including Carr, now a captain, cross-examining a sweaty and exhausted citizen.

  ‘What evidence was there?’ Martal was asking.

  The man, dressed like a common labourer, blinked, uncertain. ‘No evidence, Commander. Everyone agreed, though. The entire ship’s company was alive with the news. Malazan vessels had broken the Mare blockade.’

  Ivanr looked sharply at Martal. The woman did not glance at him.

  ‘Ship’s company? How many?’ another officer asked.

  ‘Over two hundred, sir.’

  ‘And they were all in agreement?’

  The man blushed. ‘I did not question all. But everyone was talking at once on the pier and none contradicted or disagreed with the others. All carried the same news.’

  ‘And this vessel came from Stygg?’ Carr asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. From Shroud. Everyone said they saw signs of Stygg readying for invasion.’

  Someone else entered behind Ivanr and all the officers stared, quietening. Ivanr turned: it was the mage, Sister Gosh, in her layered muddied skirts, shawls and stringy iron-grey hair. Martal raised a hand. ‘It is all right. She is welcome.’

  ‘The news is true,’ Sister Gosh said. ‘A second Malazan invasion.’

  Martal glared at the old woman. ‘Everyone out,’ she grated. The officers filed out. Sister Gosh and Ivanr remained. Once they were alone, Martal ground out, ‘You knew.’

  ‘Oh, yes. But you wouldn’t have believed me. Yeull, the Overlord, has managed to keep it quiet. But Malazan forces are marching upon him and a foreign fleet has entered Black Water Strait.’

  Martal crossed to a table kept stocked with bread and cheese, meat, wine and tea, but she touched none of it, her back to them. ‘That man, one of Beneth’s agents in Dourkan, also mentioned certain – hardly credible – rumours about who was leading this invasion …’

  ‘Yes,’ Sister Gosh said softly, her expression softening. ‘They are true as well.’

  The woman’s head sank forward and she leaned much of her weight upon the table. Ivanr looked to the mage. ‘Who? Who is it?’

  Sister Gosh eased herself down on some cushions. ‘I think we really could use some tea.’ She looked to Ivanr, cocked a brow.

  Ah. He went to the table and poured three small glasses. One he left with Martal, who had not moved, had not even acknowledged him. One he gave to Sister Gosh, and the last he sat with.

  ‘The second invasion is led by the man who led the first,’ Sister Gosh told him.

  Ivanr’s gaze snapped to Martal’s rigid back. But that would mean … ‘No. He was discredited, denounced. How could they reinstate him?’ The very man Martal refused to conde
mn – at the cost of her career, almost her life. Stonewielder. The Betrayer, as the Korelri named him.

  Still facing the tent wall, Martal spoke, her voice almost fey. ‘The worship has been stamped out here in these lands, but we Malazans pay homage to chance, or fate, in the persona of twins. Oponn, the two-faced god of luck.’ She shook her head. ‘Who would have thought …’

  ‘I believe Beneth did,’ said Sister Gosh.

  Martal turned and for a fleeting instant Ivanr caught something in her gaze, something like hope, or a desperate yearning, before the woman’s usual cool hard mask reasserted itself and he felt a pang of disappointment. I am no Beneth. To this woman there can be no other Beneth. Like her loyalty to her previous commander, this woman’s devotion is hard won, but once given is never withdrawn.

  ‘How so?’ she asked, crossing her arms and leaning back against the table.

  Unlike so many others, Sister Gosh did not flinch under the commander’s hard stare. ‘Think of the timing. Beneth has been hiding in the mountains for decades, receiving pilgrims, freethinkers, all the disenfranchised and disenchanted, and sending them back out as his agents and missionaries all over the land, into every city, founding sects and congregations of brethren. Laying the groundwork, in short, for a society-wide revolution. Then, out of nowhere, unbidden, inconceivably, his priestess arrives to ignite firestorms of uprisings and outright insurrections all over Jourilan. Yet still Beneth does not act. He waits years. Why?’

  Her gaze narrowed, Martal almost sneered, ‘You are suggesting he was awaiting this second invasion?’

  The old woman raised her shawl-wrapped shoulders. ‘Think of it. Suddenly, this year, he descends from the safety of his mountain to bring a central organizing presence to this war and reform in Jourilan. Why this year? Perhaps in his visions he saw it.’

  ‘Coincidence,’ Martal scoffed.

  ‘Coincidence?’ Sister Gosh answered, a note of scolding in her voice. ‘You who invoke Oponn?’

  ‘Someone had to act,’ Ivanr mused, almost to himself. ‘The Priestess so much as told me she would not fight.’

  A long silence followed that comment and Ivanr looked up, blinking. ‘Yes?’

  Both women were staring at him. ‘You’ve met her?’ they said in unison.

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘When—’ began Sister Gosh.

  ‘What did she say?’ Martal demanded.

  ‘She …’ Gods, she asked that I sit at her side … and I refused her! He swallowed, shaken. ‘She … told me … that is, she said she believed I was on the right path …’ He rubbed at his suddenly hot and sweaty brow. ‘She seemed to be …’

  She believed I’d come to the path intuitively, she’d said. Laughing gods! She was trying to give me reassurance! He pressed a fold of cloth to his brow, cleared his throat.

  ‘What was she like?’ Sister Gosh asked.

  Gods! What was she like? He daubed the cloth to his face, struggled to speak. ‘She was young. Too young for what she’d experienced. On her hands, her thin arms, and body, there were scars of beatings. Of a life of hard manual labour. Of starvation. And there was blood, too, in her past. She’d done things that tormented her. I saw all this in her eyes. Heard it in her words …’ His voice trailed away into nothing – he could bear no more.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ he heard Martal say, quietly.

  When he looked up they were gone and he was alone. He sat staring at nothing, suddenly desolate. How could he possibly … He was nothing! Wretched! Any comparison was laughable! A mockery! How dare he parade himself as her … as some sort of … no. Impossible. He should slink off into a hole.

  And yet … she had come to him. She chose him. Should he not have faith – faith! Gods, do not laugh! – in her judgement? If he had confidence in her – and he did! He felt it – should he not then honour her choices?

  But it was hard. Looking ahead he saw that embracing her path would be the most challenging, the most difficult calling he could ever take on. In its light everything he had done to date could only be seen as preparatory. So be it. Whether he was worthy or not was beside the point. Only in the doing can the measure be made, and then only in hindsight.

  That task he would leave to others.

  The storm was as violent as any Hiam had ever witnessed. Through driving sheets of sleet he watched rolling combers the size of mountains come crashing in like landslides. The reverberations of their impact shook even these stones here in the upper reaches of the Great Tower. The clouds massed so low it seemed the very Stormwall itself was blocking their passage, while above all the sapphire and emerald glow of the Riders rippled and danced. It was as if they somehow knew. Could somehow sense this was their moment.

  The closest they might ever come.

  But not victory. Never that. He would not allow that. She might choose to test her instruments to their very limit … but they would not break.

  They would endure.

  The heavy plank door to his apartments rattled and Hiam closed and barred the shutter on the storm. Quint entered, cloak wrapped tight about him, spear in one hand, helm in the other. He’d just come from the wall and Hiam noted how the lingering energies of the enemy sorcerers, the Wandwielders, glowed like an aura about the spear’s keen tip. ‘Wall Marshal. What brings you here this illfavoured night?’

  Quint pressed up close against the desk. His scarred face was clenched, the eyes darkened slits against the light of the chambers. ‘Where is Alton?’ he whispered. Hiam winced; he’d dreaded this moment, knowing it was unavoidable. He drew breath to speak but the Wall Marshal continued: ‘Where is Gall? Longspear? Went?’ Hiam raised a hand, nodding for silence, but the man ground on, his voice cracking: ‘I can find them nowhere. No one knows where they’ve gone.’ He set his helm on the desk and gripped the spear in tight, scarred fists, the knuckles white.

  ‘I can answer that, Quint—’ Hiam began, but was interrupted again.

  ‘Section Marshal Courval is missing. A fifteen-season veteran on the wall. One of our best. He, too, has been reassigned. Lord Protector … what have you done!’

  Hiam raised both hands. ‘Calm yourself, Quint. I knew you would not agree and so I did not inform you. I acted on my own authority.’

  ‘To do what?’ He raised his chin to the window, the storm, and the sea, beyond. ‘To weaken us now? In our time of greatest need?’

  Hiam watched, fascinated, while that keen spear-tip edged down towards his chest. Strangely, he felt no fear. I let the Lady decide – as she chooses. ‘You are right, Quint. They have all been pulled from the wall.’

  ‘Where?’ the man gasped, sounding close to weeping.

  ‘An exchange, Quint. Overlord Yeull of Rool has promised ten thousand troops for one hundred Stormguard. Soldiers, Quint! Not starving, cringing prisoners or bullied conscripts. Trained fighting men.’

  The man was shaking his head, his eyes swimming in tears. ‘Ten … You fool … he is laughing at you right now. They’ve been invaded – he’ll never send any of them!’

  The spear was almost level now. So, it is to be the blade for me, is it, Quint? Hiam fought to keep his voice level. ‘Then Courval will return. Do you really think those Roolians could stop a hundred Stormguard?’

  The Wall Marshal took a shuddering breath. His arms quivered; and Hiam knew it was not with exhaustion. The blade tilted up a notch. ‘No. No one in this entire region could stop them. Section Marshal Courval will see the impossibility of this exchange and he will return. And when he does …’ The spear’s butt slammed to the stones. ‘We will have an assembly on your leadership, Hiam. I swear to that.’

  Hiam inclined his head in assent. ‘I agree, Wall Marshal. Until then.’ He waited until Quint reached for the door, then spoke again. ‘I have before me entries from your quartermaster clerks, Quint. Were you aware of Master Engineer Stimins’ many requisitions? ’

  From the door the man grimaced his impatience. ‘What?’

  ‘Monies for labourers.
For tools, stone, chain, rope, and other such equipment?’

  ‘What do I care for the man’s stones and rope?’

  ‘You should, Quint. If I were you I would be far more concerned about Stimins’ continuing construction work than my, ah, unorthodox efforts to bolster our numbers.’

  The Wall Marshal dismissed Hiam’s words with a curt wave and slammed the door shut behind him.

  Hiam sat for a time in the dim office. Beyond the shutters the wind howled and battered like a fiend struggling to break through. You kept quiet about it, Stimins. I wouldn’t have found out but for oh-so-conscientious Shool. Pray let it not be the foundation behind Wind Tower. What had been his words? We may have one hundred years – or one.

  Poor Quint. Did he not see that should these desperate clutchings at straws fail, we will all be far too busy for a leadership review. Perhaps I should step down? Save him the trouble. It would be good to be facing them spear in hand again when …

  But no. That is an unworthy thought. Forgive me, Blessed Lady! I mustn’t give in to weakness. We will prevail as we always have. Too much rests upon our shoulders. The lives of every man, woman, and child of this region even unto the Ice Wastes rely upon us!

  Hiam pressed his hands to his hot face and felt the wetness there at his eyes. Forgive my weakness, Lady. Yea, though the shadow of doubt is upon me, I shall not waver …

  For some reason Shell hadn’t anticipated that they would be split up. It was done expertly, with a brutal efficiency born of centuries of handling captives. Lazar had led their manacled file – either by chance or by design – while Shell followed, then Blues, and lastly Fingers. Their escort chivvied them up along a steep climb through a town whose bundled inhabitants hardly looked up from their daily tasks: just one more file of condemned on their way to an anonymous death upon the wall. They climbed to a fortress that squatted half sheltered under a rocky slope that rose even higher. Once inside the fortress they were pulled and pushed into a series of underground corridors. After much marching Shell was thoroughly lost and they had passed far into what seemed a great sprawling underground complex. Heavy bronze-bound doors led off the halls into tiny rooms, cells perhaps, and further corridors.