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

  ‘Mercantile contracts must be signed and witnessed,’ insisted Teal.

  Enguf snatched up a candle and tilted it over the document. ‘All this paper waving and scratching is nothing more than hollow mummery. What matters is a man or a woman’s word.’

  ‘Nevertheless…’ Malle murmured.

  Wax dripped to the page and Enguf pressed a ring into the cooling droplet. He pushed the sheet to Teal. ‘Done. Meaningless charade though it is.’

  ‘In a barbaric country perhaps,’ allowed Teal. His second rolled up the document and slipped it away. ‘But in Lether the rule of law is respected.’

  Enguf stroked his thick russet beard. ‘Oh yes. I forgot that being civilized means constructing laws that favour yourself while at the same time disadvantaging everyone else.’

  Teal offered a bloodless smile. ‘My friend, if in some manner you find yourself disadvantaged by the law then by definition you must be a criminal.’

  ‘You take my point exactly.’

  Malle threw up a hand for silence. ‘We are outside our purview. I suggest we ready for the morrow.’

  Teal nodded his assent. ‘Of course. My thanks, Malle of Gris.’

  ‘What?’ Enguf objected, quite disbelieving. ‘Not one drink to our partnership? Come now, we must drink. All mercantile agreements must be sealed by a toast.’

  Teal’s mouth tightened even more as his jaws clenched.

  ‘If we must,’ said Malle. ‘Myself, I favour liqueurs. Wormwood, or dhenrabi blood, preferably.’

  Enguf raised his brows, impressed. ‘Well – I doubt we’ll find such rare delicacies here. But we can only try.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Innkeep? Hello? Demons and gods, has the man fled?’ He gestured to his crew and two men got to their feet and ambled to the rear, where, Fisher imagined, the man was probably cowering, overcome by this crowd of foreigners who had taken over his business.

  Fisher noted a lad lingering about the back door. He was biting his lip and shifting his weight from foot to foot, obviously anxious. He crossed to him. ‘Is something wrong, lad?’

  The boy jumped, rather surprised. ‘You don’t talk funny.’

  Fisher cursed his mistake, muttered, ‘I’ve travelled a lot. So, what’s troubling you?’

  ‘Father sent me to give a message – but I don’t know who to talk to.’

  ‘Can you tell it to me? I’ll pass it along.’

  The boy brightened; clearly this was what he’d hoped to hear. He gestured to the north. ‘We found another of you foreigners washed up on the shore. We brought him here but don’t know what to do with him. The Countess’s men won’t take him.’

  Iren, Countess of Holly. And north of here was a good part of the Wreckers’ Coast. The gods alone knew how many of the ships making for this region had their bottoms ripped out along that length of treacherous rocks and shoals. To its inhabitants anyone not local was free game to rob and murder. It was, in point of fact, the only industry they had. ‘Why bring him here?’ Fisher asked, now wondering why the lad’s father hadn’t robbed this fellow and pushed him under as he had probably done to countless others before.

  The boy now got an odd look in his eyes, wary, and touched with fear. ‘He’s a strange one, sir.’

  A strange one? ‘Well, let’s take a look.’

  The lad bobbed his head, grateful and relieved. He motioned to the rear. ‘We’d best go this way.’

  ‘The back? Why?’

  The boy now squinted to the front. ‘Ah … reasons, sir.’

  One of Enguf’s men appeared from the kitchens. ‘Can’t find the innkeep anywhere,’ he bellowed.

  Fisher eyed the sturdy hewn planks of the front door. Come to think of it, no one had come or gone for some time. He motioned the lad onward. ‘After you.’

  The boy took him out of the canted ill-fitting rear door, then immediately ducked behind a tall stack of firewood and crouched. Fisher joined him. ‘Company?’ he whispered.

  ‘The Countess’s men have closed the roads round the inn.’

  ‘Didn’t consider sharing that information?’

  The lad studied him as if he was a fool. ‘Not my errand.’ He dashed for a rear outbuilding. Keeping low, Fisher followed. Entering a field of tall stubble the lad suddenly halted and Fisher saw that he faced one of the Countess’s men-at-arms. This fellow wore a loose oversized leather jack covered in iron studs that winked as they caught the moonlight. He had a crossbow levelled upon them.

  ‘Back inside,’ he growled through a ragged beard.

  Fisher motioned to the lad. ‘He’s not with us.’

  ‘Doan’ care. Back inside. We’re arrestin’ you lot.’

  ‘What for?’ Fisher asked, almost smiling at the conceit.

  But the question didn’t buy any time at all as the man spat to one side and smiled behind his beard. ‘For bein’ a damned foreigner.’

  Fisher slowly raised his hands, and as he did so a coin appeared in each. Large ones that gleamed something other than silver in the moonlight. The man-at-arms’ tongue emerged to wet his lips and he peered about. He took his hand from the crossbow’s trigger bar and motioned for the coins to be tossed. Fisher threw them one after the other, then urged the lad onward with a hand pressed at his back. The man-at-arms ignored them as he held the coins up to the moon, squinting at them first through one eye then through the other.

  The lad stumbled onward and kept slowing to peek back. ‘Keep going,’ Fisher whispered. Once the man was left behind, the lad scowled and hunched his shoulders.

  ‘I didn’t ask you to spend no coin,’ he finally complained.

  Fisher understood the lad was worried he would press the debt upon his family. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he answered, quite untroubled. ‘The coins are from Lether and worthless. The gold plating their brass is thinner than Letherii generosity – which is non-existent.’

  The lad frowned, still uncertain. ‘Well…’ he finally judged. ‘All right.’

  Fisher peered ahead into the night where the land fell to the coast. ‘You’re taking me to the harbour.’

  ‘Aye. We have him in our boat.’

  ‘I see.’

  He was led, not to one of the fishing docks, but onward, past the built-up shore to where the waves surged among black rocks and the footing became sodden and treacherous. Here, almost invisible from shore, a tiny boat, a skiff, bobbed with the sullen gleaming waters. As they closed, a pale face rose over the worn and gouged gunwale. It was a lad even younger than the first one, fear quite plain in his wide eyes.

  ‘Just the two of you?’ Fisher grunted, surprised.

  ‘Aye.’

  He was amazed they’d brought the man all this way and didn’t simply toss him overboard and call the errand finished. Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face for the lad bristled and thrust out his chin. ‘We was told to bring him!’ Then he shrugged, his outrage melting. ‘Besides, Father said he doan’t want his ghost hauntin’ us in the night.’

  His ghost? Intrigued, Fisher edged down the slippery rocks to where the younger brother kept a handhold. The moon and clear night’s starlight revealed a tall form wrapped in burlap and rags in the skiff’s bottom.

  ‘He’s a tall one,’ Fisher observed.

  ‘That’s not all,’ said the lad, and he nodded to his brother, who knelt down and pulled the covering from the figure’s head.

  Fisher almost plunged into the cold waves as the night revealed the black elongated features of a Tiste Andii.

  * * *

  How long Fisher squatted awkwardly on the rocks staring at that face he knew not. All he knew was that he lost the feeling in his feet and had to gingerly adjust his seating to work the blood back into them. Jesting gods! An Andii here on these shores! What could be this one’s purpose for being here? Not the hunt for gold, that was certain.

  Then he saw how mist wafted from the figure, and how hoar frost limned the burlap. He pointed, hardly able to speak.

  ‘That?’ said the o
lder lad. ‘That’s nothing. Covered in ice he was when we dropped him in. And the water in the scupper froze solid beneath him.’

  Fisher could hardly credit it. ‘Ice, you say? And what of the ship – the wreck?’

  The boys exchanged wondering glances and the elder stroked his chin in a gesture out of place in one so young. ‘Was none that night. Now as you say it. Maybe he fell overboard.’

  Fisher did not think so. The lads, he noted, had been studying him for some time now, sullen and still fearful, though covering this with a brittle truculence. ‘Well?’ the older one demanded.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Will you take him from us?’

  Fisher almost gaped. ‘Oh – aye. That is, yes. Certainly.’

  The lads let out long pent-up breaths and even shared quick smiles of success. Clearly they were in dread of the curse of this black-skinned demon out of foreign lands. Fisher motioned that he would take him from the skiff. Together, the lads awkwardly eased the bundled body up to Fisher, who set it over his shoulder. At that instant he almost tumbled all of them into the waves as from within the rag cowl at the Andii’s head a great mass of billowing hair tumbled free to lash in the contrary winds: a long mane of straight black hair shot through by streaks of white.

  Andii – with streaks of silver! Fisher almost staggered. Jesting gods indeed! Could this be … him? Surely not. It must be another. He was not alone in his silvering hair, was he?

  The lads pushed him on his way, grateful now to be free of any death-curse from this eerie demon thrust upon them by the water and the night. Though Fisher was an unusually strong man he staggered beneath his burden back to town; this Andii was an unusually solid fellow. He selected a modest outbuilding, a small barn, and kicked open the door to lay his burden within. Then he went to find means to start a fire to warm him.

  As he returned carrying a brazier he’d taken from the front of another house, the noise of fighting erupted into the night. Angry shouts and the reports of crossbows reached him together with the clash of iron and yells of pain. A large fire arose to brighten the darkness towards the middle of town. Smoke billowed black into the night sky, obscuring the stars. Blasts of magery sounded, punching the air and flashing like munitions. Fisher recognized the Warrens of Serc and Telas, and wondered which of the three parties had brought such powerful attendants.

  He sat on a stool in the doorway while his charge warmed under blankets next to the brazier. Soon Letherii soldiery emerged from the night, retreating, casting fierce glances back, stopping and turning to fire their crossbows, then running on. Marshal Teal’s men.

  After them a troop of Enguf’s raiders appeared. They came jogging up the street, axes and swords loose, hugging the buildings, keeping a watchful eye behind. Spotting Fisher, a small band broke off to run his way. A voice burst out, bellowing and dismissive: ‘He’s with us, damn you all! Halt here!’

  The raiders jogged past. Many bore minor wounds. Fisher took out his pipe to examine it and Enguf, sweating and puffing, came running up. ‘Bard,’ he greeted Fisher. ‘Wondered what happened to you. Thought maybe you ate a sword during the dust-up.’

  ‘What happened at the meet?’

  The pirate angrily sheathed his sword. ‘Monumental stupidity is what happened. This Countess’s damned fool men tried to arrest us!’ The idea seemed to fill him with outrage. ‘I’m a lettered privateer. Have certificates from Elingarth! All quite legal, I assure you.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Fisher supplied. Enguf ran his fingers through his beard and squinted off into the night. ‘And now you are fleeing.’

  ‘Fleeing!’ the man echoed, offended. He pulled at his beard, considering. ‘Ach – they got the drop on us, didn’t they? We didn’t come to sack them.’ He called to his crew members: ‘Go on! Head out!’

  ‘No looting?’ a woman answered scornfully.

  The big man offered Fisher an apologetic shrug and said, his voice low: ‘We were leaving anyway…’

  ‘The arrest…?’ Fisher prompted.

  The man regained his indignation. ‘Hood’s dead hand, yes! That dried up Malazan crone – she came with two mages! They’re damned pricey.’

  Fisher pointed his pipe to where Enguf’s crew now kicked down doors and were in the process of throwing burning brands and lanterns into shops and houses. ‘And the fires?’

  Enguf pulled at his beard again, even more offended. ‘Well … they started it, didn’t they? Set our ships on fire.’

  ‘I see.’

  The Genabackan waved a paw. ‘It’ll slow them down. Now, we should go.’ He peered in past Fisher then leered, elbowing him. ‘Caught a pretty gal already, have you?’

  ‘No. A shipwreck survivor.’

  Enguf grunted his disappointment. ‘Blasted wreckers. Like to hang the lot of them.’

  ‘It’s an Andii.’

  The pirate’s bushy russet brows rose. ‘Really? That’s damned unusual. Still, good in a fight – when they fight.’

  The flickering glow of flames leapt up over them and Enguf spun, cursing. He charged off, bellowing: ‘Not yet! What about the Malazans! They’re still— Oh, Mael’s damned balls!’

  Fisher put away his pipe and rose. Time to find some kind of transportation – one that hadn’t yet been taken, that was. He wasn’t surprised that these Lether soldiers and Genabackans had found the locals tougher to handle than they’d anticipated. Such was the story of Assail. And it would only get worse inland.

  * * *

  Later, Fisher followed Teal, Malle and Enguf along a trail that wound up into woods and the rising slopes of the coastal Bone range. His donkey drew a travois on which the still unconscious Andii lay securely bound. Behind, smoke and the lurid glow of flames pockmarked Holly. The Countess’s men-at-arms now had greater worries than a small army of foreigners invading their town. Fisher was encouraged to see few soldiers and raiders carrying wounds. Clearly, these commanders knew not to fight when it wasn’t necessary. They might have been routed out of Holly, but they didn’t hang about plotting vengeance.

  Ahead, the only mounted figure awaited him: Malle of Gris. She sat sidesaddle astride a donkey that could have been the sister of the one he’d found. A bodyguard of hardened old Malazan veterans in leather and mail surrounded her. They parted for him and he could well imagine every one of them once having carried a sergeant’s armband.

  ‘So this is our mystery Andii,’ Malle said as she fell in behind the travois. ‘Has he woken at all?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Ah. Well, on the morrow perhaps.’

  ‘Yes. And you, m’lady? May I impose upon you to speak?’

  The woman wore a dress that consisted of many layers of severe black. Her greying hair was high on the top of her head and tumbled down her back, rather like spun iron. He imagined she must have been very handsome years ago. Black sheepskin riding gloves completed her costume. She smiled, amused, and gave Fisher a wave as if to dismiss his question. ‘Speak? Whatever of?’

  ‘Your reasons for embarking upon this perilous quest.’

  Her hand went to her mouth to cover a quiet laugh. ‘“Perilous quest”? Now I am certain you are a bard. There is nothing perilous about this. Nor is this a quest. A mere business trip … the acquisition of operating capital, only. Nothing more. Rather boring, really.’

  ‘Capital for what operation – if I may ask?’

  Again a courtly wave. ‘Nothing worth telling, I assure you. However, since you ask.’ She adjusted the sleeves over her slim wiry arms. As hard as pulled iron this one, Fisher reflected. The sort of widow who could outlive any number of men. ‘I come from an ancient and proud family,’ she began as they started up a rise of rock and packed mud that would take them up into the first of the coastal slopes. ‘However, our fortunes have not prospered under the Empire. What we require are funds for a new beginning. I do not know if you understand politics, bard, but it all comes down to money. Coin to purchase loyalty, to influence votes, to put seats on council
s and bodies into local senates. That is why I am here. I would see my family name returned to the prestige and power it once held.’

  As the trail steepened and the forest pressed in on both sides, Fisher took a moment to check on the balance of the travois and its passenger. Malle rode behind with ease, sidesaddle on the donkey, her short black boots peeping out from beneath the layered edges of her skirts. ‘And what name is that, good lady?’ he asked.

  Her plucked brows rose in shock and surprise. ‘You do not know?’ Then she tilted her head, considering. ‘No – how could you? Singer, I am not Malle of Gris. I am Gris.’

  Fisher bowed his head. ‘Ah. An honour.’

  Again, a modest wave set aside such considerations. ‘Gris lost its self-rule long ago.’ She sighed, crossing her gloved hands on the slack leather leads of the donkey. ‘Now we are merely citizens of the Empire – free to strive to improve our station.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The old woman’s sharp gaze now studied him. ‘And what of you? Why be here?’

  He shrugged at what should be the obviousness of it. ‘I would witness how all this unfolds.’ He offered his half-roguish smile. ‘And I will be paid in gold.’

  Malle did not appear impressed. Her steady gaze did not lighten. When it shifted away to examine the front of the column, he felt quite relieved: he’d faced a great number of cunning and powerful men and women but this one struck him as particularly shrewd. He wondered now at her reasons for being here; there was gold to be had, yes, and coin could be leveraged into status and influence. Yet this was also Assail, and many stories told of what else lurked in these mist-shrouded mountain forests. Stories that he knew contained a terrifying truth at their root: raw power itself.

  And perhaps this was what the representative of an ancient proud family pursued in order to regain the status of ruler.

  Malle now inclined her head to him in farewell and urged her donkey onward. Her guard of some ten men and women moved on with her. There came abreast of him a man in old patched clothes much travel-stained, limping and walking with the aid of a staff. His face was a patchwork of scars, the nose a mere knob of tissue and his lips twisted. Fisher realized he knew him: Holden of Cawn, mage of Serc, and a man he knew to also be an imperial Claw – a spy and operative for the throne.