‘What of your pilot, then?’
The Napan lost his grin. ‘My pilot’s a souse. Nerves.’ Jute frowned at that. Nerves? ‘Here we are,’ Cartheron announced. He raised his chin to the surf.
The huge silhouette of the sorceress’s galleon detached itself from the surrounding gloom. A fire burned in a brazier atop the raised castle at its bow. Jute estimated that height at a good six fathoms above the waterline. A launch was being lowered over the side. He and Cartheron waited.
The launch reached the surf far from them. The eight oarsmen remained seated within while two figures climbed out. The first was an aged fellow, all in dark clothes, his hair long and brightly glowing in the murk. He held out a hand to his fellow passenger. As soon as the woman stood – for it was clearly a woman, though wrapped in loose windswept robes – it was also clear to Jute that she hardly needed the old man’s help. Unusually tall one might’ve described her – alarmingly tall, even. Strapping and sturdy would perhaps be kind. She was fully taller than he or any man of his crew and her presence was accented even more by her long flowing headscarf, a face veil that revealed only her eyes, and her equally disguising layered robes.
He and Cartheron bowed to the woman and he introduced himself.
The old man, his face sun-burnished and wrinkled and dominated by a long nose, carried a tall staff – thought not so tall as the woman. He stamped this to the gravel and announced: ‘Timmel Orosenn, the Primogenitrix of Umryg.’
The woman waved a hand as if to brush this pompous announcement aside. Jute noted the hand was large enough to encircle his head like a fruit. ‘Lady Orosenn will do,’ she said in a rich honey tenor. ‘Falaran,’ she added, addressing Jute. ‘We are in your debt. Your navigator is a sorceress indeed…’ and she gave a small laugh as if sharing some unspoken secret.
Jute laughed as well; he’d always thought so. ‘That she is, my lady. But it is we who owe the debt. Your actions in the harbour saved us all.’
‘I merely did what I could to buy us time.’
‘Speaking of the harbour, what of Tyvar?’ Cartheron asked.
‘They exited the channel,’ Lady Orosenn answered. ‘What has become of them since I cannot say.’
‘Tyvar?’ Jute asked.
‘The Genabackans,’ Cartheron explained. ‘He sent a launch among us while we anchored earlier. We’ll let him introduce himself – if he hasn’t sunk.’
‘Then we wait,’ Lady Orosenn said, agreeing.
The old man frowned at the news. He peered about glowering into the dark and muttering to himself. Finally, he raised his voice. ‘M’lady,’ he urged, ‘it is not safe for you to linger here on shore. Best you remain on board your vessel, yes?’
The Lady’s eyes, so very enticing behind the veil, shifted to the south. Jute followed her gaze but saw nothing. She nodded then, reluctantly. ‘Very well. If I must. Give my thanks should Tyvar arrive.’
‘There is a danger?’ Jute asked.
‘Only to me. There are … old enemies that I must be wary of.’ The old man urged her back to the launch and her crew pushed off.
‘So we wait,’ Cartheron reaffirmed, and he wiped his mouth then eyed Jute. ‘Care for a drink? I have damn fine Untan distilled grain spirit on board. I could send for a bottle.’
Jute immediately felt his mouth water. ‘That would be wonderful. My thanks.’
Cartheron’s first mate had glared at the proposal and now he hissed aside to his captain: ‘You’re drinking the manifest!’
‘Manifestly. Now be a good man and have a bottle sent over.’
The first mate glared anew but threw his hands in the air and stalked off, grumbling and gesticulating. ‘… not a rat’s arse left … empty hold … utter loss … chicken farm…’
Some time after that a sailor in a tattered shirt and torn canvas trousers arrived carrying a bottle in one hand and two small glasses in the other. These he handed to Cartheron then walked away, all without a word or salute. Jute had the impression that standards had rather fallen on board the Ragstopper.
Cartheron inspected the glasses, blew in them, and wiped them on his very dirty shirt. He used his teeth to pull the cork free then splashed out a liberal measure of the spirit and handed Jute a glass. Jute’s enthusiasm had fallen off with the polishing, but he set aside his reluctance and raised the glass. ‘To a successful venture,’ he offered.
‘To ample wine and rich women,’ Cartheron answered. ‘Or is it the other way round?’
They drank. The liquor was indeed very fine, and very strong – including the undercurrent of sweaty shirt. Jute coughed into a fist. ‘This Tyvar – you believe he’ll make it?’
‘Oh yes. Very impressive fellow. Reminds me of the old days. But I’ll let him introduce himself. We should see him soon.’
They had another glass and Jute stood in the flickering firelight longing to question the man regarding those ‘old days’ he had so casually mentioned. But tact kept him quiet. If the man wanted to talk, he would. Besides, he understood that these veterans were often unwilling to discuss the past – it was usually painful. He was old enough himself to understand that.
‘Hear that?’ Cartheron asked after a long near-silence of crackling fires, the slow crash of the waves, hissing grasses, and the calls of night-hunting animals out on the plain beyond.
Jute started – he’d been fading. Exhaustion and alcohol. ‘I’m sorry? What?’
‘Listen.’
Jute struggled to focus. Then he finally heard it: the strike and ripple of oars out upon the water.
‘He’s here,’ Cartheron announced. ‘Good.’ He raised his drink to Jute and downed it, sucking his lips. ‘Our chances have just improved materially.’
A launch emerged into the firelight’s reach. Several of the oarsmen and women jumped overboard to drag it in through the surf. Jute noted that all wore belted layered gambesons or leathers that were the underpadding of heavy armour. All the crew fought, it seemed. Two men thudded down on to the gravel shore, both still in their armour. One was the bearded fellow who had called to Jute from the vessel earlier. The other was his virtual twin, similarly armoured, only older, his beard shot with grey.
The pair doffed their helmets and tucked them under their arms, then strode up the shore to Jute and Cartheron.
‘Captain Cartheron,’ the bearded fellow greeted him. ‘I am glad to see you still with us.’
Cartheron gestured to Jute. ‘May I introduce Captain Jute Hernan, of the Silver Dawn.’
The man bowed from the waist. ‘Captain. May I compliment you on your pilot? He is worth his weight in gold. I would follow him on any sea in any storm. But I am remiss.’ He indicated the man at his side. ‘Allow me to introduce my companion. This is Haagen Vantall, Steward of the Blue Shields.’
The man bowed, as did Jute, who strove to keep his amazement from his face. The Blue Shields! Of course. One of the fighting religious cults out of Elingarth. A brother order to the Grey Swords who had fought the Pannion threat years ago.
Haagen motioned back to his companion. ‘And this is Tyvar Gendarian, Commander of the Blue Shields. Mortal Sword of Togg.’
Tyvar shook his head. ‘Mortal Sword in title only. Togg has withdrawn, as so many of the gods have now, yes? We are all left with only our own prayers to comfort us these days.’
Jute took a steadying breath. He felt as if his head was swimming. ‘Well. My thanks for interceding in the harbour. You saved all of us.’
Tyvar waved it aside. ‘It was nothing. I would have remained and slain them all as a service to our fellow mariners, but time is pressing and we are yet at the very beginning of our journey, are we not?’ He looked to Jute expectantly.
Jute suddenly felt his mouth grow dry. He swallowed, or struggled to do so, nodding. ‘Yes. Yes, quite so. These southern reaches are said to be the easiest portion of the passage. They say it gets progressively more deadly the further one travels north. We have only just entered the southernmost bay of the Dread S
ea.’
Tyvar shared a glance with his companion. ‘And does your pilot know these waters?’
Despite feeling strangely shamed to fail this man, Jute had to shake his head. ‘No. But I would dare the Stormriders with her and will sail on.’
Tyvar burst out a laugh and slapped his thigh with his bunched gauntlets. ‘Excellent. May we accompany you then and sail north under your guidance?’
Jute stared, utterly amazed. ‘I’m sorry?’ he finally stammered in disbelief.
‘Perhaps our good captain is concerned regarding the apportioning of shares…’ Haagen murmured to Tyvar.
The Mortal Sword’s brows rose and he nodded, ‘Ah! I see. Do not concern yourself, captain. We of the Blue Shields are not interested in what gold or plunder may be amassed—’
‘Hear, hear,’ Cartheron muttered into his glass.
‘We wish only to reach the north. Aid us in this and we offer our swords. What say you?’
Jute gaped, staring from one to the next before settling upon the wrinkled grey-hued features of Cartheron Crust. The old sailor cocked a brow and held out the bottle. Jute offered his glass, which Cartheron filled. ‘Then I say we travel north.’ And he raised the glass to toss its contents to the back of his throat, gasping and coughing.
The commander of the Blue Shields let out a great shout and slapped Cartheron on the back. ‘Excellent! Two days for repairs, yes? Then we sail.’
Two days was far less than Jute would have wanted, but the deadline reminded him that they were not alone in this rush to the north. Others were on their way, or already ahead; who knew how many. And so he nodded his agreement. ‘Very well. Two days.’ And he added, gesturing to Tyvar, ‘If I may ask, sir, why do you wish to journey to the north? If not for the gold or the plunder, then what?’
The tall man nodded again, sombre. ‘A very good question, captain. Before Togg withdrew, he set upon us one last task, one last mission. That when certain portents were fulfilled, we of the Blue Shields would venture to the north of this region and there fight to right an ancient wrong. And to prevent a great tragedy.’
Jute frowned, uncertain. ‘A great tragedy, sir? What would that be?’
Tyvar waved as if the answer was obvious. ‘Why, the death of innocents, of course.’ He bowed his farewell, then turned to Cartheron. ‘My regards to our Lady,’ he offered. ‘Come, Haagen,’ and the two men returned to their launch.
Jute and Cartheron watched them go. It was now the middle of the night, and darkness quickly swallowed the small boat. The bonfires snapped and popped on the beach, sending sparks high amid the stars of the night sky. Most of Jute’s crew lay asleep around them. He sighed and rubbed his aching, foggy brow.
Cartheron slapped the cork back into the bottle and regarded him, scratching meditatively at the bristles on his cheeks. ‘Take my advice, lad,’ he said. ‘Don’t get caught up in all this talk of missions and god-given purposes. I’ve seen it before and it only leads to misery and pain.’ He offered the bottle, which Jute took. Then he inclined his head good night and walked into the dark, crunching his way across the gravel strand to his launch.
Jute stood alone for a time. He studied the night sky as if he could somehow discern there a portent of what might lie ahead, but he was no seer or mage. He turned to the ridge with its tall tossing grasses – who knew what enemies or dangers lay hidden within? Finally, he drew a deep breath and headed to a fire to find a place to lie down.
* * *
Silverfox walked the dunes of the coast. Her hair, long uncut and uncombed, whipped about her head. She hugged herself as she went; the wind was cold this day. Sea-birds hovered overhead, their wings backswept like strung bows. It was odd, she considered as she went, how she was alone yet felt as if she had to be on her own. Because of course she was never truly alone. Within her Bellurdan, the giant Thelomen, raged for action, while Nightchill, the ancient Sister of Cold Nights, and the true wellspring of her power, counselled patience. Closest to her in her humanity was Tattersail, the mage, once of the Malazan imperial cadre. She too urged patience.
And yet what of Silverfox? What of her? What did she wish? The sad fact was that she had no idea. Hers was the frail soul of a girl, full of doubts and fears. How could she set herself against such potent beings? How could she even be certain which thoughts were her own?
She raised her hands to study them, turned them over. Skin sun-darkened, stretched thin and dry, age-spotted, joints knotted and swollen – not the hands of the young girl she held in her mind’s eye. Her creation, birth, and maturation had consumed the life of her mother. As now it was consuming hers. Yet she was content; it was just. She only hoped there would be enough time. The Imass had waited untold thousands of years for her arrival, a living Bonecaster who could release them from their ritual, and now that life was slipping away. Should she fail, how much longer would they have to wait again?
If there ever could be a second chance for redemption.
The wind gusted, sands hissing about her, lashing her, and she turned her face away. The stiff brown grasses clinging to the dunes shushed and grated. She saw Pran Chole standing alone on the shore, facing out to sea, and her chest tightened in bands of dread. No – not again.
Though it was the last thing she wanted to face, she clambered down the sand slopes to the strand. He did not turn when she joined him. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
Pran was slow to answer. ‘I am not certain. I sense something … different.’
‘Different? How?’
Dry tendons creaked as he turned his ravaged face to hers. ‘Powerful.’
She suddenly found it difficult to breathe. Nightchill wavered close to her consciousness as if to reassure her with the message: do not fear, I am here.
I am no child to need such soothing, she cast against the presence in her thoughts.
Regardless, I am here should there be need.
‘It comes,’ Pran breathed, and he extended a skeletal arm, all bone and desiccated flesh, pointing.
Silverfox sought out her own powers as a Bonecaster, a shaman in her own right.
A head broke through the waves, its owner obviously walking the rising shore, approaching. Patches of long hair clung here and there over the bare dome of a tannin-stained skull. Dark empty sockets beneath thick brow-ridges, full wide cheekbones over lipless jaws that still carried strips of muscle and tendon. Next came chest and shoulders of bone beneath a ragged hide shirt, coarsely sewn, with sleeves all torn and stained.
At her side Pran Chole made one faltering step forward, as if half moving to greet the newcomer. A dry breath, like a sigh, escaped his throat.
‘What is it?’ Silverfox asked.
The newcomer approached, bowed on one knee to her. ‘Greetings, Summoner,’ he murmured in the T’lan voice that was the mere brush of falling leaves. ‘It is an honour.’
Pran Chole took another hesitant step closer. ‘I am Pran Chole. We of the Kron salute you.’
‘I am Tolb Bell’al,’ the newcomer answered, ‘Bonecaster to the Ifayle T’lan Imass. And long have I been absent.’
And to Silverfox’s utter astonishment, the two Imass embraced. For a time they held one another at arm’s length, seeming to study each other. Ifayle, she marvelled, amazed. According to the Kron they’d been lost long ago. Some even claimed they were lost here, on Assail.
‘Long has it been since the steppes of the Has’erin, Pran,’ said Tolb.
‘Indeed. That was a parting of many tears.’
‘Yet we meet again.’
Silverfox stepped up. ‘Pardon, Tolb of the Ifayle, but I must know … have you been here before?’
The two relinquished their grips. The newcomer turned to face her. She felt the full power of his regard, and it was potent indeed. This one may be the last and only shaman of the Ifayle, she thought. He carries their fate upon his ravaged shoulders. ‘No, Summoner,’ he answered. ‘But the Ifayle are here and I have searched everywhere to know the answer to their f
ate. I found it nowhere, and despaired. Until your arrival. I see now that we merely had to wait for you to come to us.’
Merely! Silverfox felt her knees weaken at the ages of weight that one small word carried.
‘So … you know.’
‘Yes. I alone escaped and have spent all this time in search of an answer. And now here you are.’
‘I?’
‘Yes.’ He bowed once more. ‘Summoner, we must travel north. The answers are there. In the far north.’
Pran Chole also faced her. ‘Summoner? What say you?’
The moment Tolb spoke she’d felt the right of it. In truth, she’d known it since they arrived on this shore. Yet she had avoided it. Dreaded the final irrevocable hard choices. She rubbed her hands up her arms and held herself. ‘I must face Omtose Phellack unveiled. Something the world has not seen in tens of thousands of years.’
‘Not you,’ said Pran.
She blinked at him, a touch irritated. ‘Not I?’
‘No. Tolb and I and the remaining Bonecasters shall. As during the ancient unveilings when the Odhan was scoured clean by rivers of ice leagues thick. Or the war over the rich fields of the Gareth’eshal, which yet lay lost to us beneath the sea.’
‘Then what of me?’
‘Summoner,’ Tolb spoke gently, ‘you must bring the Kerluhm to heel. You must stand before them and deny them their war.’
‘Your war,’ she corrected. ‘You also swore the ritual.’
The Ifayle Bonecaster nodded deeply then, his neck creaking, and it seemed to Silverfox that a great exhalation of repentance shuddered from the ancient. ‘A question of interpretation. They choose to fight it. We choose to end it.’
This near confession touched her deeply and she felt an urge to console the man though he was a walking corpse to her vision. Yet, she wondered, what differences truly lie between us? Only the accidental timing of birth. I could easily have been hearthmate to him, or he born of the Rhivi. She swept an arm to Pran. ‘Gather everyone.’
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 347