Among the untried recruits of the Fourteenth Army, fully half originated from the continent of Quon Tali, the very centre of the empire. Young and idealistic, they stepped onto blood-soaked ground, in the wake of the sacrifices made by their fathers and mothers, their grandfathers and grandmothers. It is the horror of war that, with each newly arrived generation, the nightmare is reprised by innocents.
The Sha’ik Rebellion, Illusions of Victory
ADJUNCT TAVORE STOOD ALONE IN FRONT OF FOUR THOUSAND milling, jostling soldiers, while officers bellowed and screamed through the press, their voices hoarse with desperation. Pikes wavered and flashed blinding glares through the dusty air of the parade ground like startled birds of steel. The sun was a raging fire overhead.
Fist Gamet stood twenty paces behind her, tears in his eyes as he stared at Tavore. A pernicious wind was sweeping the dust cloud directly towards the Adjunct. In moments she was engulfed. Yet she made no move, her back straight, her gloved hands at her sides.
No commander could be more alone than she was now. Alone, and helpless.
And worse. This is my legion. The 8th. The first to assemble, Beru fend us all.
But she had ordered that he remain where he was, if only to spare him the humiliation of trying to impose some kind of order on his troops. She had, instead, taken that humiliation upon herself. And Gamet wept for her, unable to hide his shame and grief.
Aren’s parade ground was a vast expanse of hard-packed, almost white earth. Six thousand fully armoured soldiers could stand arrayed in ranks with sufficient avenues between the companies for officers to conduct their review. The Fourteenth Army was to assemble before the scrutiny of Adjunct Tavore in three phases, a legion at a time. Gamet’s 8th had arrived in a ragged, dissolving mob over two bells past, every lesson from every drill sergeant lost, the few veteran officers and non-coms locked in a titanic struggle with a four-thousand-headed beast that had forgotten what it was.
Gamet saw Captain Keneb, whom Blistig had graciously given him to command the 9th Company, battering at soldiers with the flat of his blade, forcing them into a line that broke up in his wake as other soldiers pressed forward from behind. There were some old soldiers in that front row, trying to dig in their heels-sergeants and corporals, red-faced with sweat streaming from beneath their helms.
Fifteen paces behind Gamet waited the other two Fists, as well as the Wickan scouts under the command of Temul. Nil and Nether were there as well, although, mercifully, Admiral Nok was not-for the fleet had sailed.
Impulses at war within him, Gamet trembled, wanting to be elsewhere-anywhere-and wanting to drag the Adjunct with him. Failing that, wanting to step forward, defying her direct order, to take position at her side.
Someone came alongside him. A heavy leather sack thumped into the dust, and Gamet turned to see a squat soldier, blunt-featured beneath a leather cap, wearing barely half of a marine’s standard issue of armour-a random collection of boiled leather fittings-over a threadbare, stained uniform, the magenta dye so faded as to be mauve. No insignia was present. The man’s scarred, pitted face stared impassively at the seething mob.
Gamet swung further round to see an additional dozen decrepit men and women, each standing an arm’s reach from the one in front, wearing unrepaired, piecemeal armour and carrying an assortment of weapons-few of which were Malazan.
The Fist addressed the man in the lead. ‘And who in Hood’s name are you people?’
‘Sorry we was late,’ the soldier grunted. ‘Then again,’ he added, ‘I could be lying.’
‘Late? Which squads? What companies?’
The man shrugged. ‘This and that. We was in Aren gaol. Why was we there? This and that. But now we’re here, sir. You want these children quelled?’
‘If you can manage that, soldier, I’ll give you a command of your own.’
‘No you won’t. I killed an Untan noble here in Aren. Name of Lenestro. Snapped his neck with these two hands.’
Through the clouds of dust before them, a sergeant had clawed free of the mob and was approaching Adjunct Tavore. For a moment Gamet was terrified that he would, insanely, cut her down right there, but the man sheathed his short-sword as he drew up before her. Words were exchanged.
The Fist made a decision. ‘Come with me, soldier.’
‘Aye, sir.’ The man reached down and collected his kit bag.
Gamet led him to where Tavore and the sergeant stood. An odd thing happened then. There was a grunt from the veteran at the Fist’s side, even as the wiry, red-and-grey-bearded sergeant’s eyes flickered past the Adjunct and fixed on the soldier. A sudden broad grin, then a quick succession of gestures-a hand lifting, as if holding an invisible rock or ball, then the hand flipping, index finger inscribing a circle, followed by a jerk of the thumb towards the east, concluded with a shrug. In answer to all this, the soldier from the gaol gave his kit bag a shake.
The sergeant’s blue eyes widened.
They arrived, coming alongside the Adjunct, who swung a blank gaze on Gamet.
‘Your pardon, Adjunct,’ the Fist said, and would have added more, but Tavore raised a hand and made to speak.
She didn’t get a chance.
The soldier at Gamet’s side spoke to the sergeant. ‘Draw us a line, will ya?’
‘I’ll do just that.’
The sergeant pivoted and returned to the heaving ranks.
Tavore’s eyes had snapped to the soldier, but she said nothing, for the man had set his bag down, drawn back its flap, and was rummaging inside it.
Five paces in front of the legion’s uneven ranks, the sergeant once more drew his sword, then drove its blunt tip into the dust and set off, inscribing a sharp furrow in the ground.
Draw us a line, will ya?
The soldier crouched over his kit bag looked up suddenly. ‘You two still here? Go back to them Wickans, then all of you pull back another thirty, forty paces. Oh, and get them Wickans off their horses and a tight grip on the reins, and all of ya, take for yourselves a wide stance. Then when I give the signal, plug your ears.’
Gamet flinched as the man began withdrawing a succession of clay balls from his bag. The bag… that thumped down beside me not fifty heartbeats ago. Hood’s breath!
‘What is your name, soldier?’ Adjunct Tavore rasped.
‘Cuttle. Now, better get moving, lass.’
Gamet reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘Adjunct, those are-’
‘I know what they are,’ she snapped. ‘And this man’s liable to kill fifty of my soldiers-’
‘Right now, lady,’ Cuttle growled as he drew out a folding shovel, ‘you ain’t got any. Now take it from me, that otataral blade at your comely hip ain’t gonna help you one bit if you decide to stand here. Pull ’em all back, and leave the rest to me and the sergeant.’
‘Adjunct,’ Gamet said, unable to keep the pleading from his tone.
She shot him a glare, then wheeled. ‘Let us be about it, then, Fist.’
He let her take the lead, paused after a few paces to glance back. The sergeant had rejoined Cuttle, who had managed to dig a small hole in what seemed an absurdly short time.
‘Cobbles down there?’ The sergeant nodded. ‘Perfect!’
‘About what I figured,’ Cuttle replied. ‘I’ll angle these crackers, with the cusser a hand’s width deeper-’
‘Perfect. I’d have done the same if I’d thought to bring some with me.’
‘You supplied?’
‘Well enough.’
‘What I got here in my bag are the last.’
‘I can mend that, Cuttle.’
‘For that, Fid-’
‘Strings.’
‘For that, Strings, you’ve earned a kiss.’
‘I can’t wait.’
Gamet pulled himself away with a shake of his head. Sappers.
The explosion was a double thump that shook the earth, cobbles punching free of the overburden of dust-which had leapt skyward-to clack and clash in a maelstrom of stone chips and slivers. Fully a third of the legion were thrown from their feet, taking down others with them.
Astonishingly, none seemed fatally injured, as if Cuttle had somehow directed the force of the detonation downward and out under the cobbles.
As the last rubble pattered down, Adjunct Tavore and Gamet moved forward once again.
Facing the silenced mob, Cuttle stood with a sharper held high in one hand. In a bellowing voice, he addressed the recruits. ‘Next soldier who moves gets this at his feet, and if you think my aim ain’t any good, try me! Now, sergeants and corporals! Up nice and slow now. Find your squads. You up here in front, Sergeant Strings here has drawn us a tidy nice line-all right, so it’s a bit messy right now so he’s drawing it again-walk up to it easy like, toes a finger’s width away from it, boots square! We’re gonna do this right, or people are going to die.’
Sergeant Strings was moving along the front line now, ensuring the line was held, spreading soldiers out. Officers were shouting once more, though not as loud as before, since the recruits remained silent. Slowly, the legion began taking shape.
Those recruits were indeed silent, and… watchful, Gamet noted as he and the Adjunct returned to close to their original position-the gaping, smoking crater off to one side. Watchful… of the madman with the sharper held high above his head. After a moment, the Fist moved up to stand beside Cuttle.
‘You killed a nobleman?’ he asked in a low voice, studying the assembling ranks.
‘Aye, Fist. I did.’
‘Was he on the Chain of Dogs?’
‘He was.’
‘As were you, Cuttle.’
‘Until I took a spear through a shoulder. Went with the others on the Silanda. Missed the final argument, I did. Lenestro was… second best. I wanted Pullyk Alar to start, but Alar’s run off with Mallick Rel. I want both of them, Fist. Maybe they think the argument’s over, but not for me.’
‘I’d be pleased if you took me up on that offer of command,’ Gamet said.
‘No thanks, sir. I’m already assigned to a squad. Sergeant Strings’s squad, in fact. Suits me fine.’
‘Where do you know him from?’
Cuttle glanced over, his eyes thinned to slits. Expressionless, he said, ‘Never met him before today, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I owe him a kiss.’
Less than a quarter-bell later, Fist Gamet’s 8th Legion stood motionless in tight, even ranks. Adjunct Tavore studied them from where she stood at Gamet’s side, but had yet to speak. Cuttle and Sergeant Strings had rejoined the 9th Company’s 4th squad.
Tavore seemed to reach some decision. A gesture behind her brought Fists Tene Baralta and Blistig forward. Moments later they came up alongside Gamet and halted. The Adjunct’s unremarkable eyes fixed on Blistig. ‘Your legion waits in the main avenue beyond?’
The red-faced man nodded. ‘Melting in the heat, Adjunct. But that cusser going off settled them down.’
Her gaze shifted to the Red Blade. ‘Fist Baralta?’
‘Calmed, Adjunct.’
‘When I dismiss the 8th and they depart the parade ground, I suggest the remaining soldiers enter by company. Each company will then take position and when they are ready the next one follows. It may take longer, but at the very least we will not have a repetition of the chaos we have just witnessed. Fist Gamet, are you satisfied with the assemblage of your troops?’
‘Well enough, Adjunct.’
‘As am I. You may now-’
She got no further, seeing that the attention of the three men standing before her had slipped past, over her shoulder; and from the four thousand soldiers standing at attention, there was sudden, absolute silence-not a rustle of armour, not a cough. For the 8th had drawn a single breath, and now held it.
Gamet struggled to maintain his expression, even as Tavore raised an eyebrow at him. Then she slowly turned.
The toddler had come from nowhere, unseen by any until he arrived to stand in the very spot where the Adjunct had first stood, his oversized rust-red telaba trailing like a royal train. Blond hair a tangled shock above a deeply tanned, cherubic face smeared with dirt, the child faced the ranks of soldiers with an air of unperturbed calculation.
A strangled cough from among the soldiers, then someone stepped forward.
Even as the man emerged from the front line, the toddler’s eyes found him. Both arms, buried in sleeves, reached out. Then one sleeve slipped back, revealing the tiny hand, and in that hand there was a bone. A human longbone. The man froze in mid-step.
The air above the parade ground seemed to hiss like a thing alive with the gasps of four thousand soldiers.
Gamet fought down a shiver, then spoke to the man. ‘Captain Keneb,’ he said loudly, struggling to swallow a welling dread, ‘I suggest you collect your lad. Now, before he, uh, starts screaming.’
Face flushed, Keneb threw a shaky salute then strode forward.
‘Neb!’ the toddler shouted as the captain gathered him up.
Adjunct Tavore snapped, ‘Follow me!’ to Gamet, then walked to the pair. ‘Captain Keneb, is it?’
‘Your p-pardon, Adjunct. The lad has a nurse but seems determined to slip through her grasp at every opportunity-there’s a blown graveyard behind the-’
‘Is he yours, Captain?’ Tavore demanded, her tone brittle.
‘As good as, Adjunct. An orphan from the Chain of Dogs. The historian Duiker placed him into my care.’
‘Has he a name?’
‘Grub.’
‘Grub?’
Keneb’s shrug was apologetic. ‘For now, Adjunct. It well suits him-’
‘And the 8th. Yes, I see that. Deliver him to your hired nurse, Captain. Then, tomorrow, fire her and hire a better one… or three. Will the child accompany the army?’
‘He has no-one else, Adjunct. There will be other families among the camp followers-’
‘I am aware of that. Be on your way, Captain Keneb.’
‘I-I am sorry, Adjunct-’
But she was already turning away, and only Gamet heard her sigh and murmur, ‘It is far too late for that.’
And she was right. Soldiers-even recruits-recognized an omen when it arrived. A child in the very boot prints of the woman who would lead this army. Raising high a sun-bleached thigh bone.
Gods below…
‘Hood’s balls skewered on a spit.’
The curse was spoken as a low growl, in tones of disgust.
Strings watched Cuttle set his bag down and slide it beneath the low flatboard bed. The stable that had been transformed into a makeshift barracks held eight squads now, the cramped confines reeking of fresh sweat… and stark terror. At the back wall’s urine hole someone was being sick.
‘Let’s head outside, Cuttle,’ Strings said after a moment. ‘I’ll collect Gesler and Borduke.’
‘I’d rather go get drunk,’ the sapper muttered.
‘Later, we’ll do just that. But first, we need to have a small meeting.’
Still the other man hesitated.
Strings rose from his cot and stepped close. ‘Aye, it’s that important.’
‘All right. Lead on… Strings.’
As it turned out, Stormy joined the group of veterans that pushed silently past ashen-faced recruits-many of them with closed eyes and mouthing silent prayers-and headed out into the courtyard.
It was deserted, Lieutenant Ranal-who had proved pathetically ineffective at the assembly-having fled into the main house the moment the troop arrived.
All eyes were on Strings. He in turn studied the array of grim expressions around him. There was no doubt among them concerning the meaning of the omen, and Strings was inclined to agree. A child leads us to our deaths. A leg bone to signify our march, withered under the curse of the desert sun. We’ve all lived too long, seen too much, to deceive ourselves of this one brutal truth: this army of recruits now see themselves as already dead.
Stormy’s battered, red-bearded face finally twisted into an expression too bitter to be wry. ‘If you’re going to say that us here have a hope at Hood’s gate in fighting the tide, Strings, you’ve lost your mind. The lads and lasses in there ain’t unique-the whole damned three legions-’
‘I know,’ Strings cut in. ‘We ain’t none of us stupid. Now, all I’m asking is for a spell of me talking. Me talking. No interruptions. I’ll tell you when I’m done. Agreed?’
Borduke turned his head and spat. ‘You’re a Hood-damned Bridgeburner.’
‘Was. Got a problem with that?’
The sergeant of the 6th squad grinned. ‘What I meant by that, Strings, is that for you I’ll listen. As you ask.’
‘Same with us,’ Gesler muttered, Stormy nodding agreement at his side.
Strings faced Cuttle. ‘And you?’
‘Only because it’s you and not Hedge, Fiddler. Sorry. Strings.’
Borduke’s eyes widened in recognition of the name. He spat a second time.
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank us yet,’ Cuttle said, but took the edge off with a slight smile.
‘All right, I’ll start with a story. Has to do with Nok, the admiral, though he wasn’t an admiral back then, just the commander of six dromons. I’d be surprised if any of you have heard this story but if you have don’t say nothing-but its relevance here should have occurred to you already. Six dromons. On their way to meet the Kartool fleet, three pirate galleys, which had each been blessed by the island’s priests of D’rek. The Worm of Autumn. Yes, you all know D’rek’s other name, but I said it for emphasis. In any case, Nok’s fleet had stopped at the Napan Isles, went up the mouth of Koolibor River to drag barrels-drawing fresh water. What every ship did when heading out to Kartool or beyond on the Reach. Six ships, each drawing water, storing the barrels below decks.
‘Half a day out of the Napan Isles, the first barrel was broached, by a cook’s helper, on the flagship. And straight out through the hole came a snake. A paralt, up the lad’s arm. Sank both fangs into his left eye. Screaming, he ran out on deck, the snake with its jaws wide and holding tight, writhing around. Well, the lad managed two steps before he died, then he went down, already white as a sun-bleached yard. The snake was killed, but as you can imagine, it was too late.
‘Nok, being young, just shrugged the whole event off, and when word spread and sailors and marines started dying of thirst-in ships loaded with barrels of fresh water that no-one would dare open-he went and did the obvious thing. Brought up another barrel. Breached it with his own hands.’ Strings paused. He could see that no-one else knew the tale. Could see that he had their attention.
‘The damned barrel was full of snakes. Spilling out onto the deck. A damned miracle Nok wasn’t bitten. It was just starting dry season, you see. The paralts’ season in the river was ending. The waters fill with them as they head down to the river mouth on their way out to sea. Every single barrel on those six dromons held snakes.
‘The fleet never closed to do battle with the Kartoolians. By the time it made it back to Nap, half of the complement was dead of thirst. All six ships were holed outside the harbour, packed with offerings to D’rek, the Worm of Autumn, and sent to the deep. Nok had to wait until the next year to shatter Kartool’s paltry fleet. Two months after that, the island was conquered.’ He fell silent for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No, I’m not finished. That was a story, a story of how to do things wrong. You don’t destroy an omen by fighting it. No, you do the opposite. You swallow it whole.’
Confused expressions. Gesler’s was the first to clear and at the man’s grin-startling white in his bronze-hued face-Strings slowly nodded, then said, ‘If we don’t close both hands on this omen, we’re all nothing more than pall-bearers to those recruits in there. To the whole damned army.
‘Now, didn’t I hear that captain mention something about a nearby cemetery? Blown clear, the bones exposed to all. I suggest we go find it. Right now. All right, I’m finished talking.’
‘That was a damned thigh bone,’ Stormy growled.
Gesler stared at his corporal.
‘We march in two days’ time.’
Before anything else happens, Gamet silently added to the Adjunct’s announcement. He glanced over at Nil and Nether where they sat side by side on the bench against the wall. Both racked with shivers, the aftermath of the omen’s power leaving them huddled and pale.
Mysteries stalked the world. Gamet had felt their chill breath before, a reverberation of power that belonged to no god, but existed none the less. As implacable as the laws of nature. Truths beneath the bone. To his mind, the Empress would be better served by the immediate disbanding of the Fourteenth Army. A deliberate and thorough breaking up of the units with reassignments throughout the empire, the wait of another year for another wave of recruits.
Adjunct Tavore’s next words to those gathered in the chamber seemed to speak directly to Gamet’s thoughts. ‘We cannot afford it,’ she said, uncharacteristically pacing. ‘The Fourteenth cannot be defeated before it sets foot outside Aren. The entire subcontinent will be irretrievably lost if that happens. Better we get annihilated in Raraku. Sha’ik’s forces will have at least been reduced.
‘Two days.
‘In the meantime, I want the Fists to call their officers together, rank of lieutenant and higher. Inform them I will be visiting each company in person, beginning tonight. Give no indication of which one I will visit first-I want them all alert. Apart from guard postings, every soldier is restricted to barracks. Keep a particular eye on veterans. They will want to get drunk, and stay drunk, if they can. Fist Baralta, contact Orto Setral and have him assemble a troop of Red Blades. They’re to sweep the settlement of the camp followers and confiscate all alcohol and durhang or whatever else the locals possess that deadens the senses. Then establish a picket round that settlement. Any questions? Good. You are all dismissed. Gamet, send for T’amber.’
‘Aye, Adjunct.’ Uncharacteristically careless. That perfumed lover of yours has been kept from the sights of everyone here but me. They know, of course. Even so…
Outside in the hallway, Blistig exchanged a nod with Baralta then gripped Gamet’s upper arm. ‘With us, if you please.’
Nil and Nether shot them a glance then hurried off.
‘Take that damned hand off me,’ Gamet said quietly. ‘I can follow without your help, Blistig.’
The grip fell away.
They found an empty room, once used to store items on hooks fixed three-quarters of the way up all four walls. The air smelled of lanolin.
‘Time’s come,’ Blistig said without preamble. ‘We cannot march in two days’ time, Gamet, and you know it. We cannot march at all. There will be a mutiny at worst, at best an endless bleeding of desertions. The Fourteenth is finished.’
The satisfied gleam in the man’s eyes triggered a boiling rage in Gamet. He struggled for a moment then managed to clamp down on his emotions, sufficient to lock gazes with Blistig and ask, ‘Was that child’s arrival set up between you and Keneb?’
Blistig recoiled as if struck, then his face darkened. ‘What do you take me for-’
‘Right now,’ Gamet snapped, ‘I am not sure.’
The once-commander of the Aren garrison tugged the peace-loop from his sword’s hilt, but Tene Baralta stepped between the two men, armour clanking. Taller and broader than either Malazan, the dusk-skinned warrior reached out to set a gloved hand on each chest, then slowly pushed the men apart. ‘We are here to reach agreement, not kill one another,’ he rumbled. ‘Besides,’ he added, facing Blistig, ‘Gamet’s suspicion had occurred to me as well.’
‘Keneb would not do such a thing,’ Blistig rasped, ‘even if you two imagine that I might.’ A worthy answer.
Gamet pulled away and strode to face the far wall, back to the others. His mind raced, then he finally shook his head. Without turning round, he said, ‘She asked for two days-’
‘Asked? I heard an order-’
‘Then you were not listening carefully enough, Blistig. The Adjunct, young and untested though she may be, is not a fool. She sees what you see-what we all see. But she has asked for two days. Come the moment to march… well, a final decision will become obvious, either way, at that moment. Trust her.’ He swung round. ‘For this and this alone, if need be. Two days.’
After a long moment, Baralta nodded. ‘So be it.’
‘Very well,’ Blistig allowed.
Beru bless us. As Gamet made to leave, Tene Baralta touched his shoulder. ‘Fist,’ he said, ‘what is the situation with this… this T’amber? Do you know? Why is the Adjunct being so… cagey? Women who take women for lovers-the only crime is the loss to men, and so it has always been.’
‘Cagey? No, Tene Baralta. Private. The Adjunct is simply a private woman.’
The ex-Red Blade persisted, ‘What is this T’amber like? Does she exercise undue influence on our commander?’
‘I have no idea, to answer your latter question. What is she like? She was a concubine, I believe, in the Grand Temple of the Queen of Dreams, in Unta. Other than that, my only words with her have been at the Adjunct’s behest. Nor is T’amber particularly talkative…’ And that is an understatement of prodigious proportions. Beautiful, aye, and remote. Has she undue influence over Tavore? I wish I knew. ‘And speaking of T’amber, I must leave you now.’
At the door he paused and glanced back at Blistig. ‘You gave good answer, Blistig. I no longer suspect you.’ In reply, the man simply nodded.
Lostara Yil placed the last of her Red Blade accoutrements into the chest then lowered the lid and locked it. She straightened and stepped back, feeling bereft. There had been a vast comfort in belonging to that dreaded company. That the Red Blades were hated by their tribal kin, reviled in their own land, had proved surprisingly satisfying. For she hated them in turn.
Born a daughter instead of the desired son in a Pardu family, as a child she had lived on the streets of Ehrlitan. It had been common practice-before the Malazans came with their laws for families-among many tribes to cast out their unwanted children once they reached the fifth year of life. Acolytes from numerous temples-followers of mystery cults-regularly rounded up such abandoned children. No-one knew what was done with them. The hopeful among the rough circle of fellow urchins Lostara had known had believed that, among the cults, there could be found a kind of salvation. Schooling, food, safety, all leading to eventually becoming an acolyte in turn. But the majority of children suspected otherwise. They’d heard tales of-or had themselves seen-the occasional nightly foray of shrouded figures emerging from the backs of temples, wending down alleyways with a covered cart, on their way to the crab-infested tidal pools east of the city, pools not so deep that one could not see the glimmer of small picked bones at the bottom.
One thing all could agree on. The hunger of the temples was insatiable.
Optimistic or pessimistic, the children of Ehrlitan’s streets did all they could to evade the hunters with their nets and pole-ropes. A life could be eked out, a kind of freedom won, bitter though it might be.
Midway through her seventh year, Lostara was dragged down to the greasy cobbles by an acolyte’s net. Her shrieks went unheeded by the citizens who stepped aside as the silent priest dragged his prize back to the temple. Impassive eyes met hers every now and then on that horrible journey, and those eyes Lostara would never forget.
Rashan had proved less bloodthirsty than most of the other cults in the habit of hunting children. She had found herself among a handful of new arrivals, all tasked with maintenance of the temple grounds, destined, it seemed, for a lifetime of menial servitude. The drudgery continued until her ninth year, when for reasons unknown to Lostara she was selected for schooling in the Shadow Dance. She had caught rare and brief glimpses of the dancers-a hidden and secretive group of men and women for whom worship was an elaborate, intricate dance. Their only audience were priests and priestesses-none of whom would watch the actual dancers, only their shadows.
You are nothing, child. Not a dancer. Your body is in service to Rashan, and Rashan is this realm’s manifestation of Shadow, the drawing of darkness to light. When you dance, it is not you that is watched. It is the shadow your body paints. The shadow is the dancer, Lostara Yil. Not you.
Years of discipline, of limb-stretching training that loosened every joint, that drew out the spine, that would allow the Caster to flow with seamless movement-and all for naught.
The world had been changing outside the temple’s high walls. Events unknown to Lostara were systematically crushing their entire civilization. The Malazan Empire had invaded. Cities were falling. Foreign ships had blockaded Ehrlitan’s harbour.
The cult of Rashan was spared the purges of the new, harsh masters of Seven Cities, for it was a recognized religion. Other temples did not fare as well. She recalled seeing smoke in the sky above Ehrlitan and wondering at its source, and she was awakened at night by terrible sounds of chaos in the streets.
Lostara was a middling Caster. Her shadow seemed to have a mind of its own and was a recalcitrant, halting partner in the training. She did not ask herself if she was happy or otherwise. Rashan’s Empty Throne did not draw her faith as it did the other students’. She lived, but it was an unquestioning life. Neither circular nor linear, for in her mind there was no movement at all, and the notion of progress was measured only in terms of mastering the exercises forced upon her.
The cult’s destruction was sudden, unexpected, and it came from within.
She recalled the night when it had all begun. Great excitement in the temple. A High Priest from another city was visiting. Come to speak with Master Bidithal on matters of vast importance. There would be a dance in the stranger’s honour, for which Lostara and her fellow students would provide a background sequence of rhythms to complement the Shadow Dancers.
Lostara herself had been indifferent to the whole affair, and had been nowhere close to the best of the students in their minor role in the performance. But she remembered the stranger.
So unlike sour old Bidithal. Tall, thin, a laughing face, remarkably long-fingered, almost effeminate hands-hands the sight of which awakened in her new emotions.
Emotions that stuttered her mechanical dancing, that sent her shadow twisting into a rhythm that was counterpoint to that cast by not only her fellow students, but the Shadow Dancers themselves-as if a third strain had slipped into the main chamber.
Too striking to remain unnoticed.
Bidithal himself, his face darkening, had half risen-but the stranger spoke first.
‘Pray let the Dance continue,’ he said, his eyes finding Lostara’s own. ‘The Song of the Reeds has never been performed in quite this manner before. No gentle breeze here, eh, Bidithal? Oh no, a veritable gale. The Dancers are virgins, yes?’ His laugh was low yet full. ‘Yet there is nothing virginal about this dance, now, is there? Oh, storm of desire!’
And those eyes held Lostara still, in fullest recognition of the desire that overwhelmed her-that gave shape to her shadow’s wild cavort. Recognition, and a certain pleased, but cool… acknowledgement. As if flattered, but with no invitation offered in return.
The stranger had other tasks that night-and in the nights that followed-or so Lostara would come to realize much later. At the moment, however, her face burned with shame, and she had broken off her dance to flee the chamber.
Of course, Delat had not come to steal the heart of a Caster. He had come to destroy Rashan.
Delat, who, it proved, was both a High Priest and a Bridgeburner, and whatever the Emperor’s reason for annihilating the cult, his was the hand that delivered the death-blow.
Although not alone. The night of the killings, at the bell of the third hour-two past midnight-after the Song of Reeds, there had been another, hidden in the black clothes of an assassin…
Lostara knew more of what had happened that night in the Rashan Temple of Ehrlitan than anyone else barring the players themselves, for Lostara had been the only resident to be spared. Or so she had believed for a long time, until the name of Bidithal rose once more, from Sha’ik’s Apocalypse army.
Ah, I was more than spared that night, wasn’t I?
Delat’s lovely, long-fingered hands…
Setting foot onto the city’s streets the following morning, after seven years’ absence, she had been faced with the terrifying knowledge that she was alone, truly alone. Resurrecting an ancient memory of when she was awakened following the fifth birthday, and thrust into the hands of an old man hired to take her away, to leave her in a strange neighbourhood on the other side of the city. A memory that echoed with a child’s cries for her mother.
The short time that followed her departure from the temple, before she joined the Red Blades-the newly formed company of Seven Cities natives who avowed loyalty to the Malazan Empire-held its own memories, ones she had long since repressed. Hunger, denigration, humiliation and what seemed a fatal, spiralling descent. But the recruiters had found her, or perhaps she found them. The Red Blades would be a statement to the Emperor, the marking of a new era in Seven Cities. There would be peace. None of this interested Lostara, however. Rather, it was the widely-held rumour that the Red Blades sought to become the deliverers of Malazan justice.
She had not forgotten those impassive eyes. The citizens who were indifferent to her pleas, who had watched the acolyte drag her past to an unknown fate. She had not forgotten her own parents.
Betrayal could be answered by but one thing, and one thing alone, and the once-captain Lostara Yil of the Red Blades had grown skilled in that answer’s brutal delivery.
And now, am I being made into a betrayer?
She turned away from the wooden chest. She was a Red Blade no longer. In a short while, Pearl would arrive, and they would set out to find the cold, cold trail of Tavore’s hapless sister, Felisin. Along which they might find opportunity to drive a blade into the heart of the Talons. Yet were not the Talons of the empire? Dancer’s own, his spies and killers, the deadly weapon of his will. Then what had turned them into traitors?
Betrayal was a mystery. Inexplicable to Lostara. She only knew that it delivered the deepest wounds of all.
And she had long since vowed that she would never again suffer such wounds.
She collected her sword-belt from the hook above the bed and drew the thick leather band about her hips, hooking it in place.
Then froze.
The small room before her was filled with dancing shadows.
And in their midst, a figure. A pale face of firm features, made handsome by smile lines at the corners of the eyes-and the eyes themselves, which, as he looked upon her, settled like depthless pools.
Into which she felt, in a sudden rush, she could plunge. Here, now, for ever.
The figure made a slight bow with his head, then spoke, ‘Lostara Yil. You may doubt my words, but I remember you-’
She stepped back, her back pressing up against the wall, and shook her head. ‘I do not know you,’ she whispered.
‘True. But there were three of us that night, so very long ago in Ehrlitan. I was witness to your… unexpected performance. Did you know Delat-or, rather, the man I would eventually learn was Delat-would have taken you for his own? Not just the one night. You would have joined him as a Bridgeburner, and that would well have pleased him. Or so I believe. No way to test it, alas, since it all went-outwardly-so thoroughly awry.’
‘I remember,’ she said.
The man shrugged. ‘Delat, who had a different name for that mission and was my partner’s responsibility besides-Delat let Bidithal go. I suppose it seemed a… a betrayal, yes? It certainly did to my partner. Certainly to this day Shadowthrone-who was not Shadowthrone then, simply a particularly adept and ambitious practitioner of Rashan’s sister warren, Meanas-to this day, I was saying, Shadowthrone stokes eternal fires of vengeance. But Delat proved very capable of hiding… under our very noses. Like Kalam. Just another unremarked soldier in the ranks of the Bridgeburners.’
‘I do not know who you are.’
The man smiled. ‘Ah, yes, I am well ahead of myself…’ His gaze fell to the shadows spread long before him, though his back was to an unlit, closed door, and his smile broadened as if he was reconsidering those words. ‘I am Cotillion, Lostara Yil. Back then, I was Dancer, and yes, you can well guess the significance of that name, given what you were being trained to do. Of course, in Seven Cities, certain truths of the cult had been lost, in particular the true nature of Shadow Dancing. It was never meant for performance, Lostara. It was, in fact, an art most martial. Assassination.’
‘I am no follower of Shadow-Rashan or your version-’
‘That is not the loyalty I would call upon with you,’ Cotillion replied.
She was silent, struggling to fit sense to her thoughts, to his words. Cotillion… was Dancer. Shadowthrone… must have been Kellanved, the Emperor! She scowled. ‘My loyalty is to the Malazan Empire. The Empire-’
‘Very good,’ he replied. ‘I am pleased.’
‘And now you’re going to try to convince me that the Empress Laseen should not be the empire’s true ruler-’
‘Not at all. She is welcome to it. But, alas, she is in some trouble right now, isn’t she? She could do with some… help.’
‘She supposedly assassinated you!’ Lostara hissed. ‘You and Kellanved both!’ She betrayed you.
Cotillion simply shrugged again. ‘Everyone had their… appointed tasks. Lostara, the game being played here is far larger than any mortal empire. But the empire in question-your empire-well, its success is crucial to what we seek. And, were you to know the fullest extent of recent, distant events, you would need no convincing that the Empress sits on a tottering throne right now.’
‘Yet even you betrayed the Emper-Shadowthrone. Did you not just tell me-’
‘Sometimes, I see further than my dear companion. Indeed, he remains obsessed with desires to see Laseen suffer-I have other ideas, and while he may see them as party to his own, there is yet no pressing need to disabuse him of that notion. But I will not seek to deceive you into believing I am all-knowing. I admit to having made grave errors, indeed, to knowing the poison of suspicion. Quick Ben. Kalam. Whiskeyjack. Where did their loyalty truly reside? Well, I eventually got my answer, but I am not yet decided whether it pleases me or troubles me. There is one danger that plagues ascendants in particular, and that is the tendency to wait too long. Before acting, before stepping-if you will-from the shadows.’ He smiled again. ‘I would make amends for past, at times fatal, hesitation. And so here I stand before you, Lostara, to ask for your help.’
Her scowl deepened. ‘Why should I not tell Pearl all about this… meeting?’
‘No reason, but I’d rather you didn’t. I am not yet ready for Pearl. For you, remaining silent will not constitute treason, for, if you do as I ask, you two will walk step in step. You will face no conflict, no matter what may occur, or what you may discover in your travels.’
‘Where is this… Delat?’
His brows rose, as if he was caught off guard momentarily by the question, then he sighed and nodded. ‘I have no hold over him these days, alas. Why? He is too powerful. Too mysterious. Too conniving. Too Hood-damned smart. Indeed, even Shadowthrone has turned his attentions elsewhere. I would love to arrange a reunion, but I am afraid I have not that power.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘Sometimes, one must simply trust in fate, Lostara. The future can ever promise but one thing and one thing only: surprises. But know this, we would all save the Malazan Empire, in our own ways. Will you help me?’
‘If I did, would that make me a Talon?’
Cotillion’s smile broadened. ‘But, my dear, the Talons no longer exist.’
‘Oh, really, Cotillion, would you ask my help and then play me for a fool?’
The smile slowly faded. ‘But I am telling you, the Talons no longer exist. Surly annihilated them. Is there knowledge you possess that would suggest otherwise?’
She was silent a moment, then turned away. ‘No. I simply… assumed.’
‘Indeed. Will you help me then?’
‘Pearl is on his way,’ Lostara said, facing the god once again.
‘I am capable of brevity when need be.’
‘What is it you want me to do?’
Half a bell later there was a light rap upon the door and Pearl entered.
And immediately halted. ‘I smell sorcery.’
Seated on the bed, Lostara shrugged then rose to collect her kit bag. ‘There are sequences in the Shadow Dance,’ she said casually, ‘that occasionally evoke Rashan.’
‘Rashan! Yes.’ He stepped close, his gaze searching. ‘The Shadow Dance. You?’
‘Once. Long ago. I hold to no gods, Pearl. Never have. But the Dance, I’ve found, serves me in my fighting. Keeps me flexible, and I need that the most when I am nervous or unhappy.’ She slung the bag over a shoulder and waited.
Pearl’s eyebrows rose. ‘Nervous or unhappy?’
She answered him with a sour look, then walked to the doorway. ‘You said you’ve stumbled on a lead…’
He joined her. ‘I have at that. But a word of warning first. Those sequences that evoke Rashan-it would be best for us both if you avoided them in the future. That kind of activity risks drawing… attention.’
‘Very well. Now, lead on.’
A lone guard slouched outside the estate’s gate, beside a bound bundle of straw. Pale green eyes tracked Lostara and Pearl as they approached from across the street. The man’s uniform and armour were dull with dust. A small human finger bone hung on a brass loop from one ear. His expression was sickly, and he drew a deep breath before saying, ‘You the advance? Go back and tell her we’re not ready.’
Lostara blinked and glanced over at Pearl.
Her companion was smiling. ‘Do we look like messengers, soldier?’
The guard’s eyes thinned. ‘Didn’t I see you dancing on a table down at Pugroot’s Bar?’
Pearl’s smile broadened. ‘And have you a name, soldier?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Well, what is it?’
‘I just told you. Maybe. Do you need me to spell it or something?’
‘Can you?’
‘No. I was just wondering if you was stupid, that’s all. So, if you’re not the Adjunct’s advance, come to warn us about that surprise inspection, then what do you want?’
‘A moment,’ Pearl said, frowning. ‘How can an inspection be a surprise if there’s advance warning?’
‘Hood’s leathery feet, you are stupid after all. That’s how it’s done-’
‘A warning, then.’ He glanced at Lostara and winked as he added, ‘Seems I’m offering those all day. Listen, Maybe, the Adjunct won’t be warning you about her inspections-and don’t expect your officers to do so either. She has her own rules, and you’d better get used to it.’
‘You still ain’t told me what you want.’
‘I need to speak to a certain soldier of the 5th squad of the 9th Company, and I understand he is stationed in the temporary barracks here.’
‘Well, I’m in the 6th, not the 5th.’
‘Yes… so?’
‘Well, it’s obvious then, isn’t it? You don’t want to speak to me at all. Go on in, you’re wasting my time. And hurry up, I’m not feeling too well.’
The guard opened the gate and watched them stride inside, his eyes falling to Lostara’s swaying hips for a long moment before he slammed the reinforced gate shut.
Beside him, the bale of straw shimmered suddenly then reformed as an overweight young man seated cross-legged on the cobbles.
Maybe’s head turned and he sighed. ‘Don’t do that again-not near me, Balgrid. Magic makes me want to puke.’
‘I had no choice but to maintain the illusion,’ Balgrid replied, drawing a sleeve across his sweat-beaded brow. ‘That bastard was a Claw!’
‘Really? I could have sworn I saw him wearing a woman’s clothes and dancing at Pug-’
‘Will you shut up with that! Pity the poor bastard he’s looking for in the 5th!’
Maybe suddenly grinned. ‘Hey, you just fooled a real live Claw with that damned illusion! Nice work!’
‘You ain’t the only one feeling sick,’ Balgrid muttered.
Thirty paces took Lostara and Pearl across the compound to the stables.
‘That was amusing,’ said the man at her side.
‘And what was the point?’
‘Oh, just to see them sweat.’
‘Them?’
‘The man and the bale, of course. Well, here we are.’ As she reached to draw back one of the broad doors, Pearl closed a hand on her wrist. ‘In a moment. Now, there’s actually more than one person within that we need to question. A couple of veterans-leave them to me. There’s also a lad, was a guard at a mining camp. Work your charms on him while I’m talking with the other two.’
Lostara stared at him. ‘My charms,’ she said, deadpan.
Pearl grinned. ‘Aye, and if you leave him smitten, well, consider it a future investment in case we need the lad later.’
‘I see.’
She opened the door, stepping back to let Pearl precede her. The air within the stables was foul. Urine, sweat, honing oil and wet straw. Soldiers were everywhere, lying or sitting on beds or on items from a collection of ornate furniture that had come from the main house. There was little in the way of conversation, and even that fell away as heads turned towards the two strangers.
‘Thank you,’ Pearl drawled, ‘for your attention. I would speak with Sergeant Gesler and Corporal Stormy…’
‘I’m Gesler,’ a solid-looking, bronze-skinned man said from where he sprawled on a plush couch. ‘The one snoring under those silks is Stormy. And if you come from Oblat tell him we’ll pay up… eventually.’
Smiling, Pearl gestured at Lostara to follow and strode up to the sergeant. ‘I am not here to call in your debts. Rather, I would like to speak with you in private… concerning your recent adventures.’
‘Is that right. And who in Fener’s hoofprint are you?’
‘This is an imperial matter,’ Pearl said, his gaze falling to Stormy. ‘Will you wake him or shall I? Further, my companion wishes to speak with the soldier named Pella.’
Gesler’s grin was cool. ‘You want to wake my corporal? Go right ahead. As for Pella, he’s not here at the moment.’
Pearl sighed and stepped to the side of the bed. A moment’s study of the heap of expensive silks burying the snoring corporal, then the Claw reached down and flung the coverings clear.
The hand that snapped to Pearl’s right shin-halfway between knee and ankle-was large enough to almost close entirely around the limb. The surge that followed left Lostara gaping.
Up. Pearl yelling. Up, as Stormy reared from the bed like a bear prodded from its hibernation, a roar rolling from his lungs.
Had the chamber contained a ceiling of normal height-rather than a few simple crossbeams spanning the space beneath the stable roof, none of which were, mercifully, directly overhead-Pearl would have struck it, and hard, as he was lifted into the air by that single hand clasped around his shin. Lifted, then thrown.
The Claw cavorted, arms flailing, his knees shooting up over his head, spinning, legs kicking free as Stormy’s hand let go. He came down hard on one shoulder, the breath leaving his lungs in a grunting whoosh. He lay unmoving, drawing his legs up, in increments, into a curled position.
The corporal was standing now, shaggy-haired, his red beard in wild disarray, the oblivion of sleep vanishing from his eyes like pine needles in a fire-a fire that was quickly flaring into a rage. ‘I said no-one wakes me!’ he bellowed, huge hands held out to either side and clutching at the air, as if eager to close on offending throats. His bright blue eyes fixed suddenly on Pearl, who was only now moving onto his hands and knees, his head hanging low. ‘Is this the bastard?’ Stormy asked, taking a step closer.
Lostara blocked his path. Grunting, Stormy halted.
‘Leave them be, Corporal,’ Gesler said from the couch. ‘That fop you just tossed is a Claw. And a sharper look at that woman in front of you will tell you she’s a Red Blade, or was, and can likely defend herself just fine. No need to get into a brawl over lost sleep.’
Pearl was climbing to his feet, massaging his shoulder, his breaths deep and shuddering.
Hand on the pommel of her sword, Lostara stared steadily into Stormy’s eyes. ‘We were wondering,’ she said conversationally, ‘which of you is the better story-teller. My companion here would like to hear a tale. Of course, there will be payment for the privilege. Perhaps your debts to this Oblat can be… taken care of, as a show of our appreciation.’
Stormy scowled and glanced back at Gesler.
The sergeant slowly rose from the couch. ‘Well, lass, the corporal here’s better with the scary ones… since he tells them so bad they ain’t so scary any more. Since you’re being so kind with… uh, our recent push of the Lord at knuckles, me and the corporal will both weave you a tale, if that’s what you’re here for. We ain’t shy, after all. Where should we start? I was born-’
‘Not that early,’ Lostara cut in. ‘I will leave the rest to Pearl-though perhaps someone could get him something to drink to assist in his recovery. He can advise you on where to start. In the meantime, where is Pella?’
‘He’s out back,’ Gesler said.
‘Thank you.’
As she was making her way to the narrow, low door at the back of the stables, another sergeant emerged to move up alongside her. ‘I’ll escort you,’ he said.
Another damned Falari veteran. And what’s with the finger bones? ‘Am I likely to get lost, Sergeant?’ she asked as she swung open the door. Six paces beyond was the estate’s back wall. Heaps of sun-dried horse manure were banked against it. Seated on one of them was a young soldier. At the foot of a nearby pile lay two dogs, both asleep, one huge and terribly scarred, the other tiny-a snarl of hair and a pug nose.
‘Possibly,’ the sergeant replied. He touched her arm as she made to approach Pella, and she faced him with an enquiring look. ‘Are you with one of the other legions?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Ah.’ He glanced back at the stables. ‘Newly assigned to handmaid the Claw.’
‘Handmaid?’
‘Aye. The man needs… learning. Seems he chose well in you, at least.’
‘What is it you want, Sergeant?’
‘Never mind. I’ll leave you now.’
She watched him re-enter the stables. Then, with a shrug, she swung about and walked up to Pella.
Neither dog awoke at her approach.
Two large burlap sacks framed the soldier, the one on the soldier’s right filled near to bursting, the other perhaps a third full. The lad himself was hunched over, holding a small copper awl which he was using to drill a hole into a finger bone.
The sacks, Lostara realized, contained hundreds of such bones.
‘Pella.’
The young man looked up, blinked. ‘Do I know you?’
‘No. But we perhaps share an acquaintance.’
‘Oh.’ He resumed his work.
‘You were a guard in the mines-’
‘Not quite,’ he replied without looking up. ‘I was garrisoned at one of the settlements. Skullcup. But then the rebellion started. Fifteen of us survived the first night-no officers. We stayed off the road and eventually made our way to Dosin Pali. Took four nights, and we could see the city burning for the first three. Wasn’t much left when we arrived. A Malazan trader ship showed up at about the same time as us, and took us, eventually, here to Aren.’
‘Skullcup,’ Lostara said. ‘There was a prisoner there. A young girl-’
‘Tavore’s sister, you mean. Felisin.’
Her breath caught.
‘I was wondering when somebody would find me about that. Am I under arrest, then?’ He looked up.
‘No. Why? Do you think you should be?’
He returned to his work. ‘Probably. I helped them escape, after all. The night of the Uprising. Don’t know if they ever made it, though. I left them supplies, such as I could find. They were planning on heading north then west… across the desert. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the only one aiding them, but I never found out who the others were.’
Lostara slowly crouched down until she was at his eye-level. ‘Not just Felisin, then. Who was with her?’
‘Baudin-a damned frightening man, that one, but strangely loyal to Felisin, though…’ He lifted his head and met her gaze. ‘Well, she wasn’t one to reward loyalty, if you know what I mean. Anyway. Baudin, and Heboric.’
‘Heboric? Who is that?’
‘Was once a priest of Fener-all tattooed with the fur of the Boar. Had no hands-they’d been cut off. Anyway, them three.’
‘Across the desert,’ Lostara murmured. ‘But the west coast of the island has… nothing.’
‘Well, they were expecting a boat, then, weren’t they? It was planned, right? Anyway, that’s as far as I can take the tale. For the rest, ask my sergeant. Or Stormy. Or Truth.’
‘Truth? Who is he?’
‘He’s the one who’s just showed up in the doorway behind you… come to deliver more bones.’ He raised his voice. ‘No need to hesitate, Truth. In fact, this pretty woman here has some questions for you.’
Another one with the strange skin. She studied the tall, gangly youth who cautiously approached, carrying another bulging burlap sack from which sand drifted down in a dusty cloud. Hood take me, a comely lad… though that air of vulnerability would get on my nerves eventually. She straightened. ‘I would know of Felisin,’ she said, slipping some iron into her tone.
Sufficient to catch Pella’s notice, and he threw her a sharp look.
Both dogs had awakened at Truth’s arrival, but neither rose from where they lay-they simply fixed eyes on the lad.
Truth set down the bag and snapped to sudden attentiveness. Colour rose in his face.
My charms. It’s not Pella who’ll remember this day. Not Pella who’ll find someone to worship. ‘Tell me about what happened on the western shore of Otataral Island. Did the rendezvous occur as planned?’
‘I believe so,’ Truth replied after a moment. ‘But we weren’t part of that plan-we just happened to find ourselves in the same boat with Kulp, and it was Kulp who was looking to collect them.’
‘Kulp? The cadre mage from the Seventh?’
‘Aye, him. He’d been sent by Duiker-’
‘The imperial historian?’ Gods, what twisted trail is this? ‘And why would he have any interest in saving Felisin?’
‘Kulp said it was the injustice,’ Truth answered. ‘But you got it wrong-it wasn’t Felisin that Duiker wanted to help. It was Heboric.’
Pella spoke in a low voice quite unlike what she had heard from him moments earlier. ‘If Duiker is going to be made out as some kind of traitor… well, lass, better think twice. This is Aren, after all. The city that watched. That saw Duiker delivering the refugees to safety. He was the last one through the gate, they say.’ The emotion riding his words was now raw. ‘And Pormqual had him arrested!’
A chill rippled through Lostara. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Blistig loosed us Red Blades from the gaols. We were on the wall by the time Pormqual had his army out there on the plain. If Duiker was seeking to free Heboric, a fellow scholar, well, I have no complaint with that. The trail we are on is Felisin’s.’
Truth nodded at that. ‘Tavore has sent you, hasn’t she? You and that Claw inside, listening to Gesler and Stormy.’
Lostara briefly closed her eyes. ‘I am afraid I lack Pearl’s subtlety. This mission was meant to be… secret.’
‘Fine with me,’ Pella said. ‘And you, Truth?’
The tall lad nodded. ‘It doesn’t really matter anyway. Felisin is dead. They all are. Heboric. Kulp. They all died. Gesler was just telling that part.’
‘I see. None the less, please say nothing to anyone else. We will be pursuing our task, if only to gather her bones. Their bones, that is.’
‘That would be a good thing,’ Truth said with a sigh.
Lostara made to leave but Pella gestured to catch her attention. ‘Here.’ He held out to her the finger bone he had been drilling a hole through. ‘Take this for yourself. Wear it in plain sight.’
‘Why?’
Pella scowled. ‘You’ve just asked a favour of us…’
‘Very well.’ She accepted the grisly object.
Pearl appeared in the doorway. ‘Lostara,’ he called. ‘Are you done here?’
‘I am.’
‘Time to leave, then.’ She could see by his expression that he too had been told of Felisin’s death. Though probably in greater detail than the little that Truth had said.
In silence, they retraced their route through the stables, out into the compound, then across to the gate. The door swung open as they arrived and the soldier named Maybe waved them out. Lostara’s attention was drawn to the bale of straw, which seemed to be wavering, strangely melting where it squatted, but Pearl simply waved her on.
As they drew some distance from the estate, the Claw voiced a soft curse, then said, ‘I need a healer.’
‘Your limp is barely noticeable,’ Lostara observed.
‘Years of discipline, my dear. I’d much rather be screaming. The last time I suffered such strength used against me was with that Semk demon, that godling. The three of them-Gesler, Stormy and Truth-there’s more that’s strange about them than just their skin.’
‘Any theories?’
‘They went through a warren of fire-and somehow survived, though it seems that Felisin, Baudin and Heboric didn’t. Though their actual fate remains unknown. Gesler simply assumes they died. But if something unusual happened to those coastal guards in that warren, then why not the same to the ones who were washed overboard?’
‘I’m sorry. I was not told the details.’
‘We must pay a visit to a certain impounded ship. I will explain on the way. Oh, and next time don’t offer to pay off someone else’s debt… until you find out how big it is.’
And next time, leave that pompous attitude at the stable doors. ‘Very well.’
‘And stop taking charge.’
She glanced over at him. ‘You advised me to use my charm, Pearl. It’s hardly my fault if I possess more of that quality than you.’
‘Really? Let me tell you, that corporal was lucky you stepped between us.’
She wanted to laugh, but pushed it back. ‘You clearly did not notice the weapon under the man’s bed.’
‘Weapon? I care-’
‘It was a two-handed flint sword. The weapon of a T’lan Imass, Pearl. It probably weighs as much as I do.’
He said no more until they reached the Silanda.
The ship’s berth was well guarded, yet clearly permission for Pearl and Lostara had been provided earlier, for the two were waved onto the old dromon’s battered deck then left deliberately alone, the ship itself cleared of all others.
Lostara scanned the area amidships. Flame-scarred and mud smeared. A strange pyramidal mound surrounded the main mast, draped in a tarpaulin. New sails and sheets had been fitted, clearly taken from a variety of other vessels.
Standing at her side, Pearl’s gaze fell upon the covered mound, and he voiced a soft grunt. ‘Do you recognize this ship?’ he asked.
‘I recognize it’s a ship,’ Lostara replied.
‘I see. Well, it’s a Quon dromon of the old, pre-imperial style. But much of the wood and the fittings are from Drift Avalii. Do you know anything of Drift Avalii?’
‘It’s a mythical island off the Quon Tali coast. A drifting island, peopled with demons and spectres.’
‘Not mythical, and it does indeed drift, though the pattern seems to describe a kind of wobbly circle. As for demons and spectres… well…’ he strode to the tarpaulin, ‘hardly anything so frightening.’ He drew the covering back.
Severed heads, neatly piled, all facing outward, eyes blinking and fixing on Pearl and Lostara. The glimmer of wet blood.
‘If you say so,’ Lostara croaked, stepping back.
Even Pearl seemed taken aback, as if what he had unveiled was not entirely what he had expected. After a long moment he reached down and touched a fingertip to the pooled blood. ‘Still warm…’
‘B-but that’s impossible.’
‘Any more impossible than the damned things being still conscious-or alive at the very least?’ He straightened and faced her, then waved expansively. ‘This ship is a lodestone. There are layers upon layers of sorcery, soaked into the very wood, into the frame. It descends upon you with the weight of a thousand cloaks.’
‘It does? I don’t feel it.’
He looked at her blankly, then faced the mound of severed heads once more. ‘Neither demons nor spectres, as you can see. Tiste Andu, most of them. A few Quon Talian sailors. Come, let us go and examine the captain’s cabin-magic tumbles from that room in waves.’
‘What kind of magic, Pearl?’
He had already begun walking towards the hatch. A dismissive gesture. ‘Kurald Galain, Tellann, Kurald Emurlahn, Rashan-’ He paused suddenly and swung round. ‘Rashan. Yet you feel nothing?’
She shrugged. ‘Are there more… heads… in there, Pearl? If so, I think I’d rather not-’
‘Follow me,’ he snapped.
Inside, black wood, the air thick as if roiling with memories of violence. A grey-skinned, barbaric-looking corpse pinned to the captain’s chair by a massive spear. Other bodies, sprawled here and there as if grabbed, broken then tossed aside.
A dull, sourceless glow permeated the low, cramped room. Barring strange patches on the floor, smeared with, Lostara saw, otataral dust. ‘Not Tiste Andu,’ Pearl muttered. ‘These must be Tiste Edur. Oh, there are plenty of mysteries here. Gesler told me about the crew manning the oars down below-headless bodies. Those poor Tiste Andu on the deck. Now, I wonder who killed these Edur…’
‘How does all this lead us further onto Felisin’s trail, Pearl?’
‘She was here, wasn’t she? Witness to all this. The captain here had a whistle, strung around his neck, which was used to direct the rowers. It’s disappeared, alas.’
‘And without that whistle, this ship just sits here.’
Pearl nodded. ‘Too bad, isn’t it? Imagine, a ship with a crew you never have to feed, that never needs rest, that never mutinies.’
‘You can have it,’ Lostara said, turning back to the doorway. ‘I hate ships. Always have. And now I’m leaving this one.’
‘I see no reason not to join you,’ Pearl said. ‘We have a journey ahead of us, after all.’
‘We do? Where?’
‘The Silanda travelled warrens between the place where it was found by Gesler, and where it reappeared in this realm. From what I can gather, that journey crossed the mainland, from the north Otataral Sea down to Aren Bay. If Felisin, Heboric and Baudin jumped off, they might well have reappeared on land somewhere on that route.’
‘To find themselves in the midst of the rebellion.’
‘Given what seems to have led up to it, they might well have considered that a far less horrendous option.’
‘Until some band of raiders stumbled onto them.’
Captain Keneb’s 9th Company was called to muster in three successive assemblies on the parade ground. There had been no advance warning, simply the arrival of an officer commanding the soldiers to proceed at double-time.
Squads 1, 2 and 3 went first. These were heavy infantry, thirty soldiers in all, loaded down in scale armour and chain vambraces and gauntlets, kite shields, weighted longswords, stabbing spears strapped to their backs, visored and cheek-guarded helms with lobster tails, dirks and pig-stickers at their belts.
The marines were next. Ranal’s 4th, 5th and 6th squads. Following them were the bulk of the company’s troops, medium infantry, the 7th to the 24th squads. Only slightly less armoured than the heavy infantry, there was, among them, the addition of soldiers skilled in the use of the short bow, the longbow, and the spear. Each company was intended to work as a discrete unit, self-reliant and mutually supportive.
As he stood in front of his squad, Strings studied the 9th. Their first assembly as a separate force. They awaited the Adjunct’s arrival in mostly precise ranks, saying little, not one out of uniform or weaponless.
Dusk was fast approaching, the air growing mercifully cool.
Lieutenant Ranal had been walking the length of the three squads of marines for some time, back and forth, his steps slow, a sheen of sweat on his smooth-shaven cheeks. When he finally halted, it was directly before Strings.
‘All right, Sergeant,’ he hissed. ‘It’s your idea, isn’t it?’
‘Sir?’
‘Those damned finger bones! They showed up in your squad first-as if I wouldn’t have noticed that. And now I’ve heard from the captain that it’s spreading through every legion. Graves are being robbed all over the city! And I’ll tell you this-’ He stepped very close and continued in a rough whisper. ‘If the Adjunct asks who is responsible for this last spit in her face over what happened yesterday, I won’t hesitate in directing her to you.’
‘Spit in her face? Lieutenant, you are a raging idiot. Now, a clump of officers have just appeared at the main gate. I suggest you take your place, sir.’
Face dark with fury, Ranal wheeled and took position before the three squads.
The Adjunct led the way, her entourage trailing.
Captain Keneb awaited her. Strings remembered the man from the first, disastrous mustering. A Malazan. The word was out that he had been garrisoned inland, had seen his share of fighting when their company had been overrun. Then the flight southward, back to Aren. There was enough in that to lead Strings to wonder if the man hadn’t taken the coward’s route. Rather than dying with his soldiers, he’d been first in the rout. That’s how many officers outlived their squads, after all. Officers weren’t worth much, as far as the sergeant was concerned.
The Adjunct was speaking with the man now, then the captain stepped back and saluted, inviting Tavore to approach the troops. But instead she drew a step closer to the man, reached out and touched something looped about Keneb’s neck.
Strings’ eyes widened slightly. That’s a damned finger bone.
More words between the man and the woman, then the Adjunct nodded and proceeded towards the squads.
Alone, her steps slow, her face expressionless.
Strings saw the flicker of recognition as she scanned the squads. Himself, then Cuttle. After a long moment, during which she entirely ignored the ramrod-straight Lieutenant Ranal, she finally turned to the man. ‘Lieutenant.’
‘Adjunct.’
‘There seems to be a proliferation of non-standard accoutrements on your soldiers. More so here than among any of the other companies I have reviewed.’
‘Yes, Adjunct. Against my orders, and I know the man responsible-’
‘No doubt,’ she replied. ‘But I am not interested in that. I would suggest, however, that some uniformity be established for those… trinkets. Perhaps from the hip belt, opposite the scabbard. Furthermore, there have been complaints from Aren’s citizenry. At the very least, the looted pits and tombs should be returned to their original state… as much as that is possible, of course.’
Ranal’s confusion was obvious. ‘Of course, Adjunct.’
‘And you might note, as well,’ the Adjunct added drily, ‘that you are alone in wearing a… non-standard uniform of the Fourteenth Army, at this time. I suggest you correct that as soon as possible, Lieutenant. Now, you may dismiss your squads. And on your way out, convey my instruction to Captain Keneb that he can proceed with moving the company’s medium infantry to the fore.’
‘Y-yes, Adjunct. At once.’ He saluted. Strings watched her walk back to her entourage. Oh, well done, lass.
Gamet’s chest was filled with aching as he studied the Adjunct striding back to where he and the others waited. A fiercely welling emotion. Whoever had come up with the idea deserved… well, a damned kiss, as Cuttle would have said. They’ve turned the omen.
Turned it!
And he saw the rekindled fire in Tavore’s eyes as she reached them.
‘Fist Gamet.’
‘Adjunct?’
‘The Fourteenth Army requires a standard.’
‘Aye, it does indeed.’
‘We might take our inspiration from the soldiers themselves.’
‘We might well do that, Adjunct.’
‘You will see to it? In time for our departure tomorrow?’
‘I will.’
From the gate a messenger arrived on horseback. He had been riding hard, and drew up sharply upon seeing the Adjunct.
Gamet watched the man dismount and approach. Gods, not bad news… not now…
‘Report,’ the Adjunct demanded.
‘Three ships, Adjunct,’ the messenger gasped. ‘Just limped into harbour.’
‘Go on.’
‘Volunteers! Warriors! Horses and wardogs! It’s chaos at the docks!’
‘How many?’ Gamet demanded.
‘Three hundred, Fist.’
‘Where in Hood’s name are they from?’
The messenger’s gaze snapped away from them-over to where Nil and Nether stood. ‘Wickans.’ He met Tavore’s gaze once more. ‘Adjunct! Clan of the Crow. The Crow! Coltaine’s own!’