The Malazan Empire Series, page 53
A smile quirked up her full lips. ‘So, now that you are rested we can have a conversation, can we not, little rabbit? Such as who you truly work for, yes?’
Kyle was too weak to care; he hadn’t eaten in three days. ‘Work for? What in Father Sky do you mean?’
‘I mean that you have eluded the combined efforts of over twelve mages to locate you and we are now very intrigued – who could possibly be so potent? What power has taken enough of an interest in the Guard to plant a spy among us, hmm? Tell me now, little rabbit, for you surely will later. Who do you work for?’
Kyle gaped up at the woman. ‘Spy? I’m no spy.’
Frowning, Mara drew her hands from the folds of her robes. ‘Very well. I find interrogations distasteful, but you leave me no choice. I—’
She broke off, turning to where a crash of undergrowth preceded the arrival of a man who leant against a tree, gasping in air, his leather vest dark with sweat, twigs in his wild grizzled hair. One of the two fellows always hanging out with Stalker, Badlands. ‘Damn,’ he breathed, ‘but you can run, lad.’
Mara lowered her hands. ‘You were supposed to have tracked him down by now.’
Hands on his knees he bared his teeth. ‘Guess I’m gettin’ old.’
‘Where is—’
‘Here.’
Both Mara and Kyle flinched, surprised to see Stalker crouched opposite from where Badlands had crashed in with so much noise.
‘And here.’
Mara turned; the other fellow, Coots, now leaned against a tree behind her. Her mouth tightened. She adjusted the robes at her shoulder. ‘Better late then never, I imagine. Perhaps now we could return him alive for questioning.’
‘Questions regarding what?’ Stalker asked, straightening.
‘What power has extended his – or her – protection over him. Who is spying upon us.’
‘Not questions ’bout why he killed Stoop?’
‘I did not—’ Kyle began but Badlands motioned for his silence.
The Avowed mage paused, the tip of her tongue emerged to touch her upper lip. She turned in place, eyeing the three men surrounding her. ‘Of course…that as well…is of great concern to us…’
Coots and Badlands leapt, drawing knives in the air. Mara gestured, yelling, to disappear into darkness as the men landed in a tangle where she’d stood. They helped each other to their feet.
‘Suspicious bitch,’ Stalker spat into the long silence that followed the echoes of the Warren closing.
Kyle gaped anew from man to man. What in the name of all these foreign Gods was going on?
‘They’ll be back,’ said Coots.
‘In force,’ from Badlands.
‘No more questions neither,’ finished Stalker.
Badlands and Coots nodded and took off running into the forest. Stalker pulled Kyle to his feet. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Wait! What’s—’
The scout yanked Kyle onward. ‘Move.’
Kyle wrenched his arm free. ‘What’s going on, damn you!’
Stalker grimaced his irritation. ‘They’ll be comin’ back, Kyle. Maybe Cowl himself. We have to move, now.’
‘While we go then.’
A curt nod and the scout headed out, following Badlands and Coots. ‘I didn’t kill Stoop,’ Kyle began, pushing aside branches and jumping fallen trunks.
‘That’s their story,’ answered Stalker. ‘You killed him ’n’ ran.’
‘Who’d believe that?’
A shrug from the scout as he trotted along. ‘Don’t matter. That renegade, Greymane, he doesn’t seem convinced. But it’s official. What can they do?’
‘What about you three? Why attack Mara? What’s it to you?’
The tall scout held up a hand for a halt, crouched behind cover, peering behind them. Kyle joined him. They listened, trying to dampen their breathing. After a moment Stalker straightened. He yanked the pin from the breast of his leathers: the silver dragon sigil of the Crimson Guard. He tossed it aside. ‘Me ’n’ the boys, we never really were cut out for this mercenary business. We don’t think much of fighting for money or power. We fight for other things.’
Kyle realized that he still wore his sigil. Somehow, he could not bring himself to throw it away. ‘So what now?’
Stalker shrugged. ‘Get the Abyss away from here. Clear some land.’ He offered a one-sided smile. ‘Raise chickens. C’mon, my brothers won’t wait for ever.’
‘Brothers?’
‘Brothers, cousins, call it what you will. We’re all descended from one big family. The Lost. That’s us. Welcome to the family.’ The scout cuffed Kyle on his back and jogged off.
Lost. Well, that’s just great. Wonderful! Not only was he a renegade, disbanded and hunted. He was now lost too, by adoption. Shaking his head at the strange Tightness of it all he set off as well, hurrying to catch up. Before them stretched league after league of boreal forest. The western reach of the Stratem subcontinent.
Chapter V
Past Quon hegemonies never held;
occupations cannot quell unrest,
indeed, even benign ones foster it.
Must this lesson be learned every generation?
Sadly, some things never do change.
Historian Heboric
BEFORE THE SERVANT COULD ANNOUNCE HIM, HIGH FIST KORBOLO Dom, Sword of the Empire, stormed into Mallick’s residence, throwing down his gloves and travelling cloak. ‘It’s happened again! Another of the damned coward nobles has fled the capital, taken his guard with him – over four hundred horse!’
Silence answered his pronouncement. ‘Mallick!’ he roared. ‘Damn you! Don’t tell me you’ve run off too!’
‘Baron Nira’s concern for his lands and crops is well known to me,’ came Mallick’s disembodied voice from further within. Korbolo followed the voice to find the man soaking in the broad shallow pool at the centre of his quarters, a towel over his shoulders. Mallick raised a goblet. ‘Wine?’
Biting back his rage, Korbolo fought the urge to slap the glass from the man’s hand. Damn him! Was he insane? Things are slipping beyond their control and he’s bathing! Sensing another presence he glanced aside to see the withered old manservant Mallick had brought with him from Seven Cities, Oryan. He dismissed the man from his thoughts. ‘While you splash in your pool the Assembly is dissolving. Representatives are fleeing! Even those you put on it! Soon there will be nothing left to rule, Hood take it, even if we could.’
Mallick sipped the wine. ‘Dissolving – how appropriate. My friend, you are a poet.’
Korbolo stared down at the repulsive squat figure at his feet. The strong urge took hold of him to push the man’s head beneath the waters, to throttle this monstrous lurking curse that had so taken over his life. But then, for all he knew, that could prove impossible; this creature seemed born of a swamp. ‘Meanwhile,’ he continued, struggling to regain his thoughts, ‘neither you nor she do a thing. Kingdoms continue to rise in revolt against the Imperial Throne and we do nothing!’
Mallick sighed. ‘But my dear High Fist, First Sword. That is precisely what we have been encouraging them to do.’
Korbolo ground his teeth – mockery! One day this toad would push him too far. ‘Riot and dissent against her, yes. But secession? This is chaos. Nothing less than civil war. It is out of everyone’s control!’
Mallick’s bulging eyes blinked up at him. ‘Again you amaze me, First Sword. Pure poetry – chaos and loss of control. Amazing.’ He sipped his wine. ‘In the first place it is not a civil war, it is devolution to the rather monotonous old-fashioned warfare of a century ago. City state ’gainst city state. Neighbour versus neighbour. I understand that is something of a tradition here on Quon.’
‘Yes, before the emperor.’
‘Exactly. Before the strong hand of the emperor…’
Korbolo stood motionless, breathless, as the implications of Mallick’s hints blossomed. And who would the populace accept at the head of the legions restoring peace and order to their smoking, war-ravaged countryside? Surely not this bloated travesty of a man. No, not him. He let out a long shuddering breath, swallowed to wet his suddenly tight throat. ‘Very well, Mallick. However, this does not explain your or her utter inaction.’
‘But, High Fist, just what would you have her do?’
‘March! We have, what, some eight thousand regulars here in the capital? We should march on Gris or Bloor before they ally against us.’
‘And leave Unta undefended?’
‘Against who? There is no one to threaten her.’
‘Not at the moment. But should we leave…perhaps our friend Nira and his brother nobles who are so, ah, coerced in their support, might put their resources together and decide they could do a better job of defending Imperial interests, hmm, Korbolo?’
The High Fist saw it then – deadlock. Three jackals circling a wounded bhederin. Who dared strike first and risk attack from the rear? Yet how could any of the three walk away to leave such a prize for any other? Laseen, who ruled in name only? Or he and Mallick who ruled in fact? Or the nobles and Assemblymen who also may?
Yet, the thought troubled Korbolo, the beast was dying while they chased one another. Perhaps it didn’t matter to this creature Mallick, for whom a dead beast would serve just the same. But it certainly mattered to him. It must then be his duty to be sure to act before Mallick allowed things to degenerate too far. The High Fist nodded to himself, yes, that obviously was to be his responsibility. He looked down; Mallick was watching him expectantly. ‘Yes?’
‘Is that all, High Fist?’
‘Yes, Mallick. That is all.’
‘Very good. Then we are in agreement?’
‘Yes. Full agreement.’
‘Excellent.’ Mallick finished his wine.
Korbolo turned away from the sight of the man’s nauseating pallid flesh. He straightened his shirt. ‘You presume much, priest. Too often in the past you’ve promised everything but delivered nothing. The rebellion of Seven Cities – failure. Laseen’s fall in Malaz city – failure. If you fail this time you will not live to promise anew. Do I make myself clear?’
‘You do, First Sword of the Empire.’
Korbolo loosened his fists, forced himself to breathe out. How did the man manage to make even that title an insult? ‘When I wish to speak to you again I will summon you, Mallick.’
As he went to collect his cloak he heard the man’s soft voice responding, ‘So you command, Sword of the Empire.’
Some time later Mallick set his goblet on the marble border of his pool. Oryan padded silently forward to collect it. He stood over Mallick for a time, looking to the door. ‘Yes, Oryan?’
‘Why is that man still alive, master?’
‘I have always found it convenient to keep someone around upon whom everything can be blamed. Also, armour gives me hives.’
The old man sneered his disgust. ‘Any fool can wave a sword and order men to their deaths.’
‘As all of these military commanders prove again and again. Yes, Oryan. But this one is our fool.’
The morning of the second week of siege Lieutenant Rillish stood staring into a polished copper-fronted shield attempting to dry-shave himself. His hand shook so abominably it was his third attempt. He told himself it must be from having just stood command through the entire night; at least he hoped that was the case. A knock at his barracks door allowed him an excuse to abandon the effort. ‘Yes?’
‘Sergeant, sir.’
‘It’s not the Hood-damned south wall again, is it?’
‘No, sir. Not that,’ Sergeant Chord called through the door. ‘Given up on that they have sir, as a bad job.’
‘Then pray what is it, Sergeant?’
‘It’s the elders, sir. Another delegation. Like a word.’
Again? Hadn’t he made it plain enough? Rillish eased himself down into a camp stool. He massaged his thigh where a leaf-bladed spearhead had slid straight in. ‘Very well, Sergeant, let them in.’
The door opened and in shuffled five Wickan elders of those trapped with them within the fort. Rillish knew the names of two, the hetman, Udep, and a shaman held in high regard, Clearwater. It struck him how beaten down they looked. Eyes downcast, shoulders slumped. Trousers of tattered cloth and torn thin leather. Even their amulets and wristlets of beaten copper looked tarnished and cheap. These were the feared warriors the Empire could not tame? But then, a Wickan without a horse was a sad sight no matter the circumstances; and these were the worst.
‘Pardon, Commander,’ Udep began, ‘we would speak again.’
‘Yes, hetman. You are aways welcome. And you, shaman.’
The grey-haired shaggy mage managed a jerked nod. It seemed to Rillish that the man was dead on his feet: hands twitching with exhaustion, face pale as if drained of blood. A haunted look in his sunken eyes. Was the man expending himself sending curses out among the besiegers? If so, he’d heard nothing of it. He’d have to question Chord.
‘We again ask that we be allowed the dignity of defending that which is ours.’
‘We’ve been through this before, hetman. Malazan soldiery will defend this installation.’
The man’s scarred hands clenched and unclenched on his belt as if at the throat of an enemy. ‘What is it you wish, Malazan? Would you have us beg?’
‘Beg?’
Barked Wickan from the three old women with Udep made the man wince. He took a great shuddering breath. ‘My pardon, Commander. That was unworthy. Even now you spill your own blood in defence in our land.’ The hetman looked down.
Rillish saw that his leg wound had re-opened. The packed dirt under his chair was damp with blood. He took hold of his leg. One of the old women said something that sounded suspiciously like idiot and slapped his hands aside. She began rebinding the wound.
‘You need every hand you can get, Commander,’ continued Udep.
‘We’ve been over that already.’
‘At least we would die fighting.’
‘Don’t be impatient. There’s every chance of it yet.’
The hetman crossed his arms, hugging himself. He seemed to be struggling with something; he and Clearwater exchanged tight glances. ‘You leave us very little choice. We still have our pride.’
Rillish knew the elders had been cooking something up in the main stone building he’d moved them and the children to. So far he’d not interfered. He raised a finger. ‘No attacks. Not until the last soldier falls. This is still a Malazan military possession. Understood?’
The shaman Clearwater opened his mouth to address Rillish, but Udep cut him off with a curt command. They turned to go. Rillish touched the arm of the aged Wickan grandmother who had rebound his leg. She turned back, her gaze narrowed, wary.
‘My thanks.’
A smile of bright white teeth melted decades from the squat woman and dazzled Rillish. At the door the hetman paused. ‘Commander, when you lose the walls you will be falling back to us at the main building, yes?’
For a moment Rillish thought about disputing whether they would ever lose control of the walls but because it was so obvious to the both of them he decided against insulting the man with empty assurances. Instead, he allowed a curt nod.
Udep answered in kind and left. Sergeant Chord stuck his head in. ‘Movement in their camp, sir. Looks like new arrivals.’
‘More of them, Sergeant?’
The man grinned. ‘Don’t matter. We’ve iron enough for all.’
Rillish stood, wincing. He belted on his twinned Untan duelling swords. ‘Let’s hope it’s not someone who knows what he’s doing.’
‘No, sir. Baron Horse’s-Ass still looks to be in charge.’
‘Well thank Trake for small blessings, hey, Sergeant? Let’s have a look.’
He thought of himself as Ragman now. A knotted bundle of used up bits and pieces whose original cut had long since been lost. Walking the seeming endless plains of ash and fields of broken rock that was the Imperial Warren the man stopped suddenly, examined the tattered remains of his once fine clothes and nodded, satisfied. Yes, inside and out; so it should be. Allowing himself to fall forward he twisted the move into a series of cartwheels and spinning high kicks. Tatterdemalion, he named himself as he ran through his impromptu pattern. Harlequin. Clown. He froze, crouched, arms outstretched. No – he must not lose hold of the one thread that could lead him back. Though they were coming far less often now; perhaps they’d learned their lesson.
Movement above in the unchanging lead sky drove him to cover behind a large boulder. Dark shapes moving across the sky, far off, ponderously huge. So, not just wild reports and stories from sources of…questionable…veracity. Telling himself they were too distant and that he was no doubt too insignificant, he stood and set off at a jog, following.
The ground steadily broke into shallow gullies and high buttes surrounded by erosional slopes and gravel fans. Skittering down one such slope he stopped just short of a jutting spine of basalt. His Warren-sensitivity told him someone was near, hiding, watchful. After catching his breath he called, ‘You can come out.’
A figure detatched itself from the shadows of one jagged black spire. It climbed down, lithe and quick. Ragman caught his breath – one of them yet not. Different by her style. Much more colourful, individual. Similar, yet not regimented in her moves. She stopped before him, a safe distance off. Dark eyes regarded him through a slit between veil and headscarf. ‘And you are?’ she asked.
‘Impressed.’
A glance toward the spires. ‘They are that. Like a peek?’
‘Very much so.’
‘After you.’
He gave a courtier’s bow and climbed the spine to a gap between spires. Beyond, across a plain of twisting gullies and dunes five titanic geometric shapes hovered. Beneath them the winds blew constantly, billowing outwards in dust clouds that reached high overhead. What were they up to? Could anyone guess? He climbed back down.
