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

  Suth knelt back down. ‘Hood-spawned bastard. I can’t believe we have to put up with him.’

  ‘It’s like family,’ Len told him, smiling lopsidedly. ‘You can’t pick your squadmates. Goss has his eye on him.’

  The next morning, while the very tail of the expeditionary force rumbled past, they assembled for orders. Pyke was once again in line and Suth glared; when had he come sneaking back? Then he remembered Len’s warning and forced himself to look away.

  The Fist was talking to the sergeants and Suth was pleased to see the Adjunct, Kyle, with the man. He looked as good as new, if a little more battered. Aha! This could be interesting. Then he thought of the last special mission and decided that maybe that wasn’t what he wanted after all.

  Orders were given and, accompanied by a few wagons, they headed off south, down nothing more than a rutted mud cart track across open country while the rest of the army carried on west.

  No, Suth decided. This was not what he really wanted at all.

  They marched the full day south, following a farmers’ trail. Mixed snow and rain soaked Suth all the way through his layered aketon down to his linen. Only the marching kept him warm. From what he’d heard it was maybe another day’s march to the Mare border. He wondered if they were off to check that frontier. Yet with only fifty or so soldiers?

  They pushed on into dusk. The Fist’s escort led, the Adjunct accompanying him. Twilight swiftly deepened beneath the cloud cover. Scouts appeared from the shadows, Tolat among them. They conferred with the Fist’s party. Orders came back for heightened readiness. Goss signed for shields to be unslung.

  A further march through dusk into night proper brought their party to the smooth grassy crest of a dry valley and there, across the way along the far crest, torches flickered. In the valley a single tent glowed, lit from within. Dark pennants hung limp before it. There was too little light to tell, but those pennants might be the brown of Rool.

  Wess spat a mouthful of brown spittle and set his heavy shield on the ground to lean over it. ‘Parley,’ he said, nodding his certainty.

  Parley? Suth thought, studying the far torches. Whatever for? They had the Roolian forces on the run. Why would they waste time talking to them? Unless, unlikely as it seemed, this was surrender? No. It couldn’t be this easy. Could it? Suth was surprised to find part of him hoping such was the case, while another part was offended by the idea. He wondered which half would be rewarded come tomorrow.

  Goss’ voice cut through the night. ‘Stand down! Bivouac here!’

  Suth shared an unenthusiastic look with Wess. Setting up after dark. Gods, how he hated it.

  Rillish sipped hot tea while he eyed the waiting tent in the golden light of dawn. Figures moved about it; only about five of them that he could see. The rest of the party remained on the distant crest. Some commander of the Roolian forces has asked for a meeting, Greymane had said. See what they want and if it’s of any interest to us.

  And I agreed – then Greymane sent the Adjunct as well and again I said nothing though there was no need for both. One or the other. Kyle could negotiate for the High Fist; indeed, that was almost what the role of Adjunct was designed for. Why both of us is now painfully obvious even to the men: Greymane has no confidence in his Fist.

  Kyle joined him, head bare, wearing just his padded and stained gambeson and soft leather trousers. Rillish knew that almost any other Fist in his place would resent and hate this young usurper of his or her authority, but older now, and a father, certain this was his last command, he could not muster the energy for seething bitterness. Quite the opposite: he always found himself wanting to offer the young man advice.

  Which, surprisingly enough, this young Adjunct seemed to listen to, or at least he could hide his own resentment and contempt.

  An aide offered Kyle tea, which he accepted. ‘How many should we take?’ he asked.

  ‘About five, perhaps.’

  The Adjunct raised his glass to the far crest. ‘And how many hiding beyond that high land?’

  ‘Good question. Do we really have to talk to them, hey?’

  The Adjunct picked up a hardtack biscuit, dipped it in the tea. ‘I think so.’

  ‘I agree. And the High Fist did not say who he’d be sending.’

  Kyle grunted his understanding: hard to set a trap when you don’t know who’s coming. ‘Who do we take?’

  ‘A couple of sergeants, I suppose.’

  ‘If you don’t mind … there’re some hands with us I’ve been out with before.’

  Rillish nodded his agreement. ‘And that sergeant – Goss. I’ll find them.’

  Kyle set down his glass. ‘Don’t bother yourself, Fist. I’ll hunt them up.’

  ‘I—’ Rillish bit down the rest of his objection. The Adjunct turned back to him, frowning behind his long moustache.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Inclining his head in an informal salute, the young man left.

  There it was again. Interference or consideration? What would the men and women of the cohort see now? The Adjunct active, giving orders, in command, while I stand aside apparently useless? Was this how the Adjunct wished it? Or had the youth interpreted such message duties as beneath the Fist? Did he not mind them seeing him acting as an aide? Or was he one not to give any thought to that at all?

  He didn’t know enough of the man to be sure either way. So far, however, it appeared that the foreign plains youth really didn’t give a damn about any of these issues of rank or prerogatives of command. If true, it would be a relief to Rillish not to have to worry about such trivial things.

  In the morning the Adjunct came by and spoke to Goss. The squad watched sidelong from their places hunched round the fire, warming their hands and stamping their feet. Len ladled out a broth from their cookpot. Blowing into his fists, Goss approached, gestured to Suth. ‘Kit up. You ’n’ me are goin’ for a walk.’ Suth nodded. ‘The rest of you … gear up and keep watch. We don’t know how many of the bastards there are.’ He gave Len a hard stare. ‘Corporal. You’re in charge till I get back.’

  Len saluted. Yana, Suth saw, was eyeing Pyke, who seemed to be ignoring everyone.

  Goss glanced at Suth. ‘What’re you doing still here?’

  Suth downed his broth and went to get ready.

  Six of them came walking down the overgrown farmers’ trail into the valley. The Adjunct and the Fist led, followed by Sergeant Coral of the 20th and Goss, then Suth and Tolat. While a small woman, Coral was rumoured to be lethally quick with her longsword, which she could wield in one or both hands.

  The pennants were Roolian brown. The tent front was wide open to reveal a carpeted floor, a brazier with a tea service, and some foodstuffs. Four guards stood outside. Inside sat three men, waiting. Two were obviously guards while the third wore thick rich sleeveless robes over leather armour set with rings and studs.

  The three stood and the fat one came forward. ‘Greetings. Thank you for answering my invitation. I am Baron Karien’el.’

  Rillish bowed. ‘Fist Rillish Jal Keth.’ Turning to the Adjunct he paused, said, ‘My aide, Kyle.’

  Suth was surprised to hear that bit of misdirection, but decided that there was no point in letting the man know just who was with him. And the Adjunct made no objection.

  The Baron bowed and invited them in. ‘Sit, please.’

  Goss and Coral motioned that they four should remain outside. They spread out in a broad arc. Suth tried not to overhear but he couldn’t help it – the Baron had a very loud voice.

  ‘I am honoured, Fist, and … encouraged … that the High Fist would send such a high-ranking officer.’

  ‘It is nothing,’ answered Rillish. ‘The High Fist is keen to see an end to hostilities.’

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ the Baron asked.

  ‘Thank you, yes.’ One of the guards readied the tea. Rillish continued, his voice uncertain: ‘Baron Karien’el, did you say? I do not recall hearing of you be
fore – you are Roolian, yes?’

  The man waved to himself, his swarthy face, black beard. ‘Yes, I am Roolian, as you see. Not Malazan stock. I am recently come into my title.’

  ‘Congratulations. But it was my understanding that the aristocracy were of Malazan descent, as a rule.’

  ‘Only among you foreign invaders.’

  The Fist was quiet for some time. He sipped his tea. Tolat, Suth noted, was watching the field of tall grass surrounding the tent and that reminded Suth that he too ought to be keeping a lookout. Rillish cleared his throat. ‘Am I to understand then, that I am not addressing a representative of Overlord Yeull?’

  The fellow stroked his thick rich beard, smiling. ‘Correct, Fist.’

  Suth glanced about, alarmed. Thesorma Raadil! An insurgency! These Roolians see the chance to rid themselves of all of us! But why announce this?

  ‘And you have a proposal?’ Rillish asked, his tone expressing dry disinterest.

  The Baron held up his open hands. ‘I will be frank. We Roolians wish to see the last of all of you Malazans—’ The man waved a hand at some reaction from Rillish. ‘Now, now. If I said otherwise you would know me for a liar, yes?’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Very good. On these grounds of candour let me offer a gesture of our neutrality. May I?’

  Rillish nodded his agreement.

  The Baron snapped his fingers and one of the guards waved to the far valley slope. Goss, Coral, Tolat and Suth all stood in alarm. Rillish and Kyle remained seated with Karien’el. A small party started down the far valley side. A file of figures escorted by a few others. It did not have the look of an ambush.

  ‘What is it, Sergeant?’ Rillish called.

  Goss answered, ‘Looks like prisoners, Fist.’

  ‘Yes, Fist,’ said the Baron. And he stood, grunting and rubbing his legs. He invited Rillish and Kyle to the front of the tent. ‘Please accept these officers of the Overlord as a gesture of our goodwill,’ and he smiled once more.

  In that bared-tooth savage grin Suth read the message: … that you will kill each other off and save us the trouble.

  Rillish offered a slight bow. ‘Our thanks, Baron. Until we meet again, then.’

  The grin broadened. ‘Yes. Until then.’

  Corlo lay against the cold dank wall of his pen, legs drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped tight, not caring whether he lived or died. He’d done his shameful job – done what the Stormguard wanted of him – and now he lay cast aside, apparently forgotten. It was probable that the only reason he lived and was not chained along some frontier of the Stormwall was his prudent captors’ awareness that he may be needed again.

  Gods, not again. Surely not. His lie would see Bars through this season. Of that he was sure. After that … all that was too far away to care any more. He had betrayed too egregiously. The lie burned too virulently in his chest. Yet surely some of them must still survive! Somewhere!

  Now he lay jammed in with the worst of the Stormguard’s cullings. Dumped among those imprisoned within what was itself one immense prison. The murderers, the incurably rebellious, and the just plain mad. He was dying of starvation. Food came on plates shoved through a narrow slit. The strongest fell upon it and wolfed it down, leaving none for the rest. And since Corlo chose not to rouse himself he went without. Such was life without rules beyond individual gratification.

  He set his head back. A cold breeze chilled him here below the single narrow chute that opened to the outside. No one spoke to him. Not only was he a foreigner; all here knew a hopeless case when they saw one. He had now what Hagen had identified as ‘the look of a jumper’. It was too late now. Even if he wanted to he hadn’t the strength to fight for his share. He would fade away. He rubbed at the metal torc round his neck alloyed with magic-deadening otataral. Too late. He’d planned to have Hagen wrench it from him when the time was right. So much for his grand plan for escape.

  It was just too awful. All this effort to remain alive to help Bars – only to deceive him beyond all excuse. It was too much.

  How many days had passed? He knew not. The glow from the deep chute that allowed light here far within the bowels of the Stormwall came and went. The engorged heartbeat of waves pounded ceaselessly through the stones.

  Farewell, Halfpeck. I wish you better luck. May you see your way out. We made a good show of it. Almost made it, too. Crossed half the damned world only to fall short of Quon Tali, into the hands of these provincial, blinkered, ignorant religious fanatics.

  Damn them to Hood’s deepest vault.

  Some time later Corlo was roused by yells and blows in the cell. Guards had entered and were swinging truncheons right and left as they worked their way through the prisoners. They appeared to be searching for someone.

  Oh, damn, no. Not again. No. Never. I’ll not …

  Hands took hold of him, lifted him.

  No! Damn you! I’d rather die!

  He tried to fight but he was too weak. The effort blackened his vision and he knew nothing more.

  He awoke lying on a pallet of straw. He no longer shuddered uncontrollably; warmth flowed over him from an iron brazier in the middle of what was a long hall where wounded lay on either side of the narrow walk between. Some sort of infirmary overflow. Gods, no. They couldn’t need him again so soon, could they? His heart clenched. Could there be trouble with Bars?

  Someone sat next to his pallet. He smelled hot stew that sent his stomach churning.

  ‘Eat,’ the someone said.

  ‘Go away.’

  The person leaned closer, said, lower, ‘You must eat, Corlo.’

  Corlo turned his head and there sat Jemain, First Mate on board their ship, the Ardent, before the Marese sank it off the coast of Fist. ‘Queen’s mysteries, Jemain! What are you doing here?’

  The skinny fellow shrugged, grinning. ‘I’m a trustee. Been keeping track of you. When I heard you were here I pulled a few favours.’

  ‘But they wanted to keep us separate …’

  The man lost his grin. ‘Well, they seem to have forgotten who came with who. They have bigger worries, hey?’ He stirred the stew, offered a spoonful to Corlo, who ate it. ‘Anyway … I came because I have news. I met someone. A woman …’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘A sense of humour. A good sign. You’re recovering. No, this one fought like a demon on the wall and when I mentioned the name Bars she reacted like she knew him.’

  Corlo’s stomach coiled, tensing. He tried to sit up. Hood no! Not someone else! ‘Who!’

  ‘Do you know the name Shell?’

  Corlo stared. Surely not Shellarr? How could they have captured her? Unless … ‘Was she blonde?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Attractive?’

  The man almost blushed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘A mage?’

  Jemain frowned. He stirred the stew, offered some more to Corlo, who ate absently. ‘She wore no neck torc …’

  Corlo sat back. ‘The woman I know as Shell is a mage. She would’ve had a neck torc.’

  ‘Unless she’s hidden it from the Chosen.’

  Suddenly tired, Corlo shut his eyes. ‘You say she fought well?’

  ‘Well enough to catch the attention of the Stormguard,’ Jemain said bitterly.

  Shell was Avowed. Mage or not, that alone would place her among the most formidable here on the wall … ‘Who was with her? Do you know?’

  ‘She came with others. A few. I could dig around.’

  Corlo nodded, eyes shut. ‘Yes. Find out who she came with. Names. Descriptions.’ Struck by a new thought, he opened his eyes. ‘Who else are you in contact with? Who do you know of?’ The man was quiet for a time; Corlo glanced over. Gaze lowered, he was stirring the stew. ‘Do you know who’s left, Jemain?’

  Gathering himself, the man nodded. ‘Yes, Corlo. I know.’

  ‘Good. Who?’

  The man pressed the wooden bowl into Corlo’s hands. ‘More of that later. That is enough for now.
I have to go ask around, yes?’

  Corlo grasped the man’s wrist as tightly as he could; which was hardly tight at all. ‘Who!’

  Jemain pressed him back. ‘Don’t worry yourself, Corlo. Rest. That is enough for now. I’ll have more information in time.’

  ‘You’re coming back?’

  ‘Yes. Once I find out more.’ He stood. ‘This woman, Shell. She might be Avowed?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Good. I’ll ask around. Good to see you.’

  ‘And you.’

  Jemain squeezed his shoulder then moved off. Corlo lay back, stared at the stone ceiling. Halfpeck, then. Maybe Meek, Dropper, Joden and Peel. The old Blade. Surely them. Surely of everyone they would have survived. And this woman, Avowed? Probably not. Why would they infiltrate the Stormwall? Bars was convinced that under Skinner the Guard had turned from its old mission. Were they here to finish him off? But why come at all? Surely Bars is contained where he is. Yet he remains among the Avowed; he’ll always be a threat to them.

  Very well … He found the spoon and stuck it into his mouth to suck on it. He’d have to see. And if there were Avowed of the Guard here, then in a way he hadn’t really lied, had he?

  The drain of requisitions for supplies, stores and men led Hiam to the length of Stormwall administered out of Ice Tower, north of Kor. It lay to the east beyond a tall headland and this Hiam climbed alone, cloak tight about him, spear held at an easy angle. Reaching the crest of the pass he was surprised to be challenged by sentries out beyond the obscuring snowfall.

  ‘Halt! Who is there!’

  Irritated, Hiam called back: ‘By what authority do you challenge a Stormguard on the wall itself?’

  ‘Advance!’

  The sentries were not Chosen Stormguard themselves, a fact that eased Hiam’s mind, for that would have been an egregious waste. The men were in fact two Theftian recruits carrying shields and swords. ‘You are?’ one demanded.

  ‘The Lord Protector come to see Master Stimins.’

  The two gaped at him, then each other. They sheathed their swords. ‘Our apologies. We are just here to warn people off. There are repairs ahead – dangerous footing.’