Woe to the fallen in the alleys of Aren…
A SINGLE KICK FROM THE BURLY SOLDIER IN THE LEAD SENT THE flimsy door crashing inward. He disappeared into the gloom beyond, followed by the rest of his squad. From within came shouts, the sound of crashing furniture.
Gamet glanced over at Commander Blistig.
The man shrugged. ‘Aye, the door was unlocked-it’s an inn, after all, though such a lofty title for this squalid pit is stretching things somewhat. Even so, it’s a matter of achieving the proper effect.’
‘You misunderstood me,’ Gamet replied. ‘I simply cannot believe that your soldiers found him here.’
Unease flitted across Blistig’s solid, broad features. ‘Aye, well, we’ve rounded up others in worse places, Fist. It’s what comes of-’ he squinted up the street, ‘of broken hearts.’
Fist. The title still clambers into my gut like a starving crow. Gamet frowned. ‘The Adjunct has no time for broken-hearted soldiers, Commander.’
‘It was unrealistic to arrive here expecting to stoke the fires of vengeance. Can’t stoke cold ashes, though don’t take me wrong, I wish her the Lady’s luck.’
‘Rather more is expected of you than that,’ Gamet said drily.
The streets were virtually deserted at this time of day, the afternoon heat oppressive. Of course, even at other times, Aren was not as it once had been. Trade from the north had ceased. Apart from Malazan warships and transports, and a few fisherboats, the harbour and river mouth were empty. This was, Gamet reflected, a scarred populace.
The squad was re-emerging from the inn, carrying with them a rag-clad, feebly struggling old man. He was smeared in vomit, the little hair he had left hanging like grey strings, his skin patched and grey with filth. Cursing at the stench, the soldiers of Blistig’s Aren Guard hurried their burden towards the cart’s bed.
‘It was a miracle we found him at all,’ the commander said. ‘I truly expected the old bastard to up and drown himself.’
Momentarily unmindful of his new title, Gamet turned and spat onto the cobbles. ‘This situation is contemptible, Blistig. Damn it, some semblance of military decorum-of control, Hood take me-should have been possible…’
The commander stiffened at Gamet’s tone. The guards gathered at the back of the cart all turned at his words.
Blistig stepped close to the Fist. ‘You listen to me and listen well,’ he growled under his breath, a tremble shivering across his scarred cheeks, his eyes hard as iron. ‘I stood on the damned wall and watched. As did every one of my soldiers. Pormqual running in circles like a castrated cat-that historian and those two Wickan children wailing with grief. I watched-we all watched-as Coltaine and his Seventh were cut down before our very eyes. And if that wasn’t enough, the High Fist then marched out his army and ordered them to disarm! If not for one of my captains delivering intelligence concerning Mallick Rel being an agent of Sha’ik’s, my Guard would have died with them. Military decorum? Go to Hood with your military decorum, Fist!’
Gamet stood unmoving at the commander’s tirade. It was not the first time that he’d felt the snap of this man’s temper. Since he had arrived with Adjunct Tavore’s retinue, and was given the liaison role that took him to the forefront of dealing with the survivors of the Chain of Dogs-both those who had come in with the historian Duiker, and those who had awaited them in the city-Gamet had felt under siege. The rage beneath the mantle of propriety erupted again and again. Hearts not simply broken, but shattered, torn to pieces, trampled on. The Adjunct’s hope of resurrecting the survivors-making use of their local experience to steady her legions of untested recruits-was, to Gamet, seeming more and more unrealistic with each day that passed.
It was also clear that Blistig cared little that Gamet made daily reports to the Adjunct, and could reasonably expect his tirades to have been passed on to Tavore, in culpable detail. The commander was doubly fortunate, therefore, that Gamet had as yet said nothing of them to the Adjunct, exercising extreme brevity in his debriefings and keeping personal observations to the minimum.
As Blistig’s words trailed away, Gamet simply sighed and approached the cart to look down on the drunken old man lying on its bed. The soldiers backed away a step-as if the Fist carried a contagion. ‘So,’ Gamet drawled, ‘this is Squint. The man who killed Coltaine-’
‘Was a mercy,’ one of the guards snapped.
‘Clearly, Squint does not think so.’
There was no reply to that. Blistig arrived at the Fist’s side. ‘All right,’ he said to his squad, ‘take him and get him cleaned up-and under lock and key.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Moments later the cart was being pulled away. Gamet faced Blistig once more. ‘Your rather unsubtle plan of getting yourself stripped of rank, shackled in irons, and sent back to Unta on the first ship, will not succeed, Commander. Neither the Adjunct, nor I, care one whit for your fragile state. We are preparing to fight a war, and for that you will be needed. You and every one of your crumple-faced soldiers.’
‘Better we’d died with the rest-’
‘But you did not. We have three legions of recruits, Commander. Wide-eyed and young but ready to shed Seven Cities blood. The question is, what do you and your soldiers intend to show them?’
Blistig glared. ‘The Adjunct makes the captain of her House Guard into a Fist, and I’m supposed to-’
‘Fourth Army,’ Gamet snapped. ‘In the 1st Company at its inception. The Wickan Wars. Twenty-three years’ service, Commander. I knew Coltaine when you were still bouncing on your mother’s knee. I took a lance through the chest but proved too stubborn to die. My commander was kind enough to retire me to what he figured was a safe position back in Unta. Aye, captain of the guard in the House of Paran. But I’d damn well earned it!’
After a long moment, a wry grin twisted Blistig’s mouth. ‘So you’re as happy to be here as I am.’ Gamet grimaced, made no reply. The two Malazans returned to their horses.
Swinging himself onto the saddle, Gamet said, ‘We’re expecting the last transport of troops from Malaz Island some time today. The Adjunct wants all the commanders assembled in her council chambers at the eighth bell.’
‘To what end?’ Blistig asked.
If I had my way, to see you drawn and quartered. ‘Just be there, Commander.’
The vast mouth of the Menykh River was a brown, turgid swirl that reached half a league out into Aren Bay. Leaning on the transport’s starboard railing just behind the forecastle, Strings studied the roiling water below, then lifted his gaze to the city on the river’s north shore.
He rubbed at the bristles on his long jaw. The rusty hue of his beard in youth had given way now to grey… which was a good thing as far as he was concerned.
The city of Aren had changed little in the years since he had last seen it, barring the paucity of ships in the harbour. The same pall of smoke hanging over it, the same endless stream of sewage crawling the currents into the Seeker’s Deep-through which the broad-beamed, sluggish transport now sailed.
The newly issued leather cap chafed the back of his neck; it had damned near broken his heart to discard his old one, along with his tattered leather surcoat, and the sword-belt he’d stripped from a Falah’dan guard who no longer needed it. In fact, he had retained but one possession from his former life, buried down in the bottom of his kit bag in his berth below decks, and he had no intention of permitting its discovery by anyone.
A man came alongside him, leaned casually on the rail and stared out over the water to the city drawing ever nearer.
Strings offered no greeting. Lieutenant Ranal embodied the worst of Malazan military command. Nobleborn, commission purchased in the city of Quon, arrogant and inflexible and righteous and yet to draw a sword in anger. A walking death sentence to his soldiers, and it was the Lord’s luck that Strings was one of those soldiers.
The lieutenant was a tall man, his Quon blood the purest it could be; fair-skinned, fair-haired, his cheekbones high and wide, his nose straight and long, his mouth full. Strings had hated him on sight.
‘It is customary to salute your superior,’ Ranal said with affected indifference.
‘Saluting officers gets them killed, sir.’
‘Here on a transport ship?’
‘Just getting into the habit,’ Strings replied.
‘It has been plain from the start that you have done this before, soldier.’ Ranal paused to examine the supple, black knuckles of his gloved hands. ‘Hood knows, you’re old enough to be the father of most of those marines sitting on the deck behind us. The recruiting officer sent you straight through-you’ve not trained or sparred once, yet here I am, expected to accept you as one of my soldiers.’
Strings shrugged, said nothing.
‘That recruiting officer,’ Ranal went on after a moment, his pale blue eyes fixed on the city, ‘said she saw from the start what you’d been trying to hide. Oddly, she considered it-you, to be more precise-a valuable resource, even so much as to suggesting I make you a sergeant. Do you know why I find that odd?’
‘No, sir, but I am sure you will tell me.’
‘Because I think you were a deserter.’
Strings leaned far forward and spat down into the water. ‘I’ve met more than a few, and they’ve all got their reasons and no two of them alike. But there’s one thing they all have in common.’
‘And what is that?’
‘You’ll never find them in an enlistment line, Lieutenant. Enjoy the view, sir.’ He turned away and wandered back to where the other marines sprawled on the midship deck. Most had long since recovered from their seasickness, yet their eagerness to disembark was palpable. Strings sat down, stretched out his legs.
‘Lieutenant wants your head on a plate,’ a voice murmured beside him.
Strings sighed and closed his eyes, lifting his face to the afternoon sun. ‘What the lieutenant wants and what he gets ain’t the same thing, Koryk.’
‘What he’ll get is the bunch of us right here,’ the Seti half-blood replied, rolling his broad shoulders, strands of his long black hair whipping across his flat-featured face.
‘The practice is to mix recruits with veterans,’ Strings said. ‘Despite everything you’ve heard, there’s survivors of the Chain of Dogs in yon city over there. A whole shipload of wounded marines and Wickans made it through, I’ve heard. And there’s the Aren Guard, and the Red Blades. A number of coastal marine ships straggled in as well. Finally, there’s Admiral Nok’s fleet, though I imagine he’ll want to keep his own forces intact.’
‘What for?’ another recruit asked. ‘We’re heading for a desert war, aren’t we?’
Strings glanced over at her. Frighteningly young, reminding him of another young woman who’d marched alongside him a while ago. He shivered slightly, then said, ‘The Adjunct would have to be a fool to strip the fleet. Nok’s ready to begin the reconquest of the coast cities-he could’ve started months ago. The empire needs secure ports. Without them we’re finished on this continent.’
‘Well,’ the young woman muttered, ‘from what I’ve heard, this Adjunct might be just what you said, old man. Hood knows, she’s nobleborn, ain’t she?’
Strings snorted, but said nothing, closing his eyes once more. He was worried the lass might be right. Then again, this Tavore was sister to Captain Paran. And Paran had shown some spine back in Darujhistan. At the very least, he was no fool.
‘Where’d you get the name “Strings”, anyway?’ the young woman asked after a moment.
Fiddler smiled. ‘That tale’s too long to tell, lass.’
Her gauntlets thudded down onto the tabletop, raising a cloud of dust. Armour rustling, sweat soaking the under-padding between her breasts, she unstrapped her helmet and-as the wench arrived with the tankard of ale-dragged out the rickety chair and sat down.
Street urchin messenger. Delivering a small strip of green silk which bore, written in a fine hand, the Malazan words: Dancer’s Tavern, dusk. Lostara Yil was more irritated than intrigued.
The interior of Dancer’s Tavern consisted of a single room, the four walls making some ancient claim to whitewashed plaster, remnants of which now clung to the adobe bricks in misshapen, wine-stained patches, like a map of a drunkard’s paradise. The low ceiling was rotting before the very eyes of owner and patron, dust sifting down in clouds lit by the low sun that cast streams of light through the front window’s shutters. Already, the foam-threaded surface of the ale in the tankard before her sported a dull sheen.
There were but three other patrons, two bent over a game of slivers at the table closest to the window, and a lone, mumbling, semi-conscious man slumped against the wall beside the piss trench.
Although early, the Red Blade captain was already impatient to see an end to this pathetic mystery, if mystery it was meant to be. She’d needed but a moment to realize who it was who had set up this clandestine meeting. And while a part of her was warmed by the thought of seeing him again-for all his affectations and airs he was handsome enough-she had sufficient responsibilities to wrestle with as Tene Baralta’s aide. Thus far, the Red Blades were being treated as a company distinct from the Adjunct’s punitive army, despite the fact that there were few soldiers available with actual fighting experience… and even fewer with the backbone to put that experience to use.
The disordered apathy rife in Blistig’s Aren Guard was not shared by the Red Blades. Kin had been lost in the Chain of Dogs, and that would be answered. If…
The Adjunct was Malazan-an unknown to Lostara and the rest of the Red Blades; even Tene Baralta, who had met her face to face on three occasions, remained unable to gauge her, to take her measure. Did Tavore trust the Red Blades?
Maybe the truth is already before us. She’s yet to give our company anything. Are we part of her army? Will the Red Blades be permitted to fight the Whirlwind?
Questions without answers. And here she sat, wasting time-The door swung open.
A shimmering grey cloak, green-tinted leathers, dark, sun-burnished skin, a wide, welcoming smile. ‘Captain Lostara Yil! I am delighted to see you again.’ He strode over, dismissing the approaching serving wench with a casual wave of one gloved hand. Settling into the chair opposite her, he raised two crystal goblets that seemed to appear from nowhere and set them on the dusty table. A black bottle, long-necked and glistening, followed. ‘I strongly advise against the local ale in this particular establishment, my dear. This vintage suits the occasion far better. From the sun-drenched south slopes of Gris, where grow the finest grapes this world has seen. Is mine an informed opinion, you are wondering? Most assuredly so, lass, since I hold a majority interest in said vineyards-’
‘What is it you want with me, Pearl?’
He poured the magenta-hued wine into the goblets, his smile unwavering. ‘Plagued as I am with sentimentality, I thought we might raise our glasses to old times. Granted, they were rather harrowing times; none the less, we survived, did we not?’
‘Oh yes,’ Lostara replied. ‘And you went your way, on to greater glory no doubt. Whilst I went mine-straight into a cell.’
The Claw sighed. ‘Ah well, poor Pormqual’s advisers failed him dearly, alas. But I see now that you and your fellow Red Blades are free once more, your weapons returned to you, your place in the Adjunct’s army secure-’
‘Not quite.’
Pearl arched an elegant brow.
Lostara collected the goblet and drank a mouthful, barely noticing its taste. ‘We have had no indication of the Adjunct’s wishes towards us.’
‘How strange!’
Scowling, the captain said, ‘Enough games-you surely know far more about it than we do-’
‘Alas, I must disabuse you of that notion. The new Adjunct is as unfathomable to me as she is to you. My failure was in making assumptions that she would hasten to repair the damage done to your illustrious company. To leave unanswered the question of the Red Blades’ loyalty…’ Pearl sipped wine, then leaned back. ‘You have been released from the gaols, your weapons returned to you-have you been barred from leaving the city? From headquarters?’
‘Only her council chambers, Pearl.’
The Claw’s expression brightened. ‘Ah, but in that you are not alone, my dear. From what I have heard, apart from the select few who have accompanied her from Unta, the Adjunct has hardly spoken with anyone at all. I believe, however, that the situation is about to change.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why, only that there will be a council of war tonight, one to which your commander, Tene Baralta, has no doubt been invited, as well as Commander Blistig and a host of others whose appearance will likely surprise one and all.’ He fell silent then, his green eyes holding on her.
Lostara slowly blinked. ‘That being the case, I must needs return to Tene Baralta-’
‘A fair conclusion, lass. Unfortunately wrong, I am afraid.’
‘Explain yourself, Pearl.’
He leaned forward once more and topped up her drink. ‘Delighted to. As recalcitrant as the Adjunct has been, I did manage to have occasion to present to her a request, which she has approved.’
Lostara’s voice was flat. ‘What kind of request?’
‘Well, sentimentality is my curse, as I mentioned earlier. Fond are my memories of you and me working together. So fond, in fact, that I have requested you as my, uhm, my aide. Your commander has of course been informed-’
‘I am a captain in the Red Blades!’ Lostara snapped. ‘Not a Claw, not a spy, not a mur-’ She bit the word back.
Pearl’s eyes widened. ‘I am deeply hurt. But magnanimous enough this evening to excuse your ignorance. Whilst you may find no distinction between the art of assassination and the crude notion of murder, I assure you that one exists. Be that as it may, permit me to allay your fears-the task awaiting you and me will not involve the ghastlier side of my calling. No indeed, lass, my need for you in this upcoming endeavour depends entirely upon two of your numerous qualities. Your familiarity as a native of Seven Cities, for one. And the other-even more vital-your unquestioned loyalty to the Malazan Empire. Now, while you could in no way argue the veracity of the former, it now falls to you to reassert your claim to the latter.’
She stared at him for a long moment, then slowly nodded. ‘I see. Very well, I am at your disposal.’
Pearl smiled once more. ‘Wonderful. My faith in you was absolute.’
‘What is this mission we are to embark upon?’
‘Details will be forthcoming once we have our personal interview with the Adjunct this evening.’
She straightened. ‘You have no idea, do you?’
His smile broadened. ‘Exciting, yes?’
‘So you don’t know if it will involve assassination-’
‘Assassination? Who knows? But murder? Assuredly not. Now, drink up, lass. We must needs march to the palace of the late High Fist. I have heard that the Adjunct has little toleration for tardiness.’
Everyone had arrived early. Gamet stood near the door through which the Adjunct would appear, his back to the wall, his arms crossed. Before him, stationed in the long, low-ceilinged council chamber, were the three commanders who had been assembled for this evening’s first set of meetings. The next few bells, with all the orchestration directing them, promised to be interesting. None the less, the once-captain of House Paran was feeling somewhat intimidated.
He had been a common soldier years back, not one to find himself in councils of war. There was little comfort in this new mantle of Fist, for he knew that merit had had nothing to do with acquiring the title. Tavore knew him, had grown used to commanding him, to leaving to him the tasks of organization, the arranging of schedules… but for a noble household. Yet it seemed she intended to use him in an identical manner, this time for the entire Fourteenth Army. Which made him an administrator, not a Fist. A fact of which no-one present in this room was unaware.
He was unused to the embarrassment he felt, and recognized that the bluster he often displayed was nothing more than a knee-jerk reaction to his own sense of inadequacy. For the moment, however, he did not feel capable of managing even so much as diffidence, much less bluster. Admiral Nok was standing a half-dozen paces away, in quiet conversation with the imposing commander of the Red Blades, Tene Baralta. Blistig sat sprawled in a chair at the far end of the map table, farthest from where the Adjunct would seat herself once the meeting commenced.
Gamet’s eyes were drawn again and again to the tall admiral. Apart from Dujek Onearm, Nok was the last of the commanders from the Emperor’s time. The only admiral who didn’t drown. With the sudden deaths of the Napan brothers, Urko and Crust, Nok had been given overall command of the imperial fleets. The Empress had sent him and a hundred and seven of his ships to Seven Cities when the rumours of rebellion had reached fever pitch. Had the High Fist in Aren not effectively impounded that fleet in the harbour, Coltaine’s Chain of Dogs could have been prevented; indeed, the rebellion might well be over. Now, the task of reconquest promised to be a drawn-out, bloody endeavour. Whatever feelings the admiral might have regarding all that had occurred and all that was likely to come, he gave no outward indication, his expression remaining cold and impersonal.
Tene Baralta had his own grievances. The Red Blades had been charged with treason by Pormqual, even as one of their companies fought under Coltaine’s command-fought, and was annihilated. Blistig’s first order once the High Fist left the city had been their release. As with the survivors of the Chain of Dogs and the Aren Guard, the Adjunct had inherited their presence. The question of what to do with them-what to do with them all-was about to be answered.
Gamet wished he could allay their concerns, but the truth was, Tavore had never been free with her thoughts. The Fist had no idea what this evening would bring.
The door opened.
As was her style, Tavore’s clothes were well made, but plain and virtually colourless. A match to her eyes, to the streaks of grey in her reddish, short-cropped hair, to her unyielding, unprepossessing features. She was tall, somewhat broad in the hips, her breasts slightly oversized for her frame. The otataral sword of her office was scabbarded at her belt-the only indication of her imperial title. A half-dozen scrolls were tucked under one arm.
‘Stand or sit as you like,’ were her first words as she strode to the High Fist’s ornate chair.
Gamet watched Nok and Tene Baralta move to chairs at the table, then followed suit.
Back straight, the Adjunct sat. She set the scrolls down. ‘The disposition of the Fourteenth Army is the subject of this meeting. Remain in our company, Admiral Nok, please.’ She reached for the first scroll and slipped its ties. ‘Three legions. The 8th, 9th and 10th. Fist Gamet shall command the 8th. Fist Blistig, the 9th, and Fist Tene Baralta, the 10th. The choice of officers under each respective command is at the discretion of each Fist. I advise you to select wisely. Admiral Nok, detach Commander Alardis from your flagship. She is now in charge of the Aren Guard.’ Without pause she reached for a second scroll. ‘As to the survivors of the Chain of Dogs and sundry unattached elements at our disposal, their units are now dissolved. They have been reassigned and dispersed throughout the three legions.’ She finally looked up-and if she took note of the shock on the faces that Gamet saw, a shock he shared, she hid it well. ‘In three days’ time, I will review your troops. That is all.’
In numbed silence, the four men slowly rose.
The Adjunct gestured at the two scrolls she had laid out. ‘Fist Blistig, take these please. You and Tene Baralta might wish to reconvene in one of the side chambers, in order to discuss the details of your new commands. Fist Gamet, you can join them later. For now, remain with me. Admiral Nok, I wish to speak with you privately later this evening. Please ensure that you are at my disposal.’
The tall, elderly man cleared his throat. ‘I shall be in the mess hall, Adjunct.’
‘Very good.’
Gamet watched the three men depart.
As soon as the doors closed, the Adjunct rose from her chair. She walked over to the ancient, woven tapestries running the length of one of the walls. ‘Extraordinary patterns, Gamet, don’t you think? A culture obsessed with intricacies. Well,’ she faced him, ‘that was concluded with unexpected ease. It seems we have a few moments before our next guests.’
‘I believe they were all too shocked to respond, Adjunct. The imperial style of command usually includes discussion, argument, compromise-’
Her only reply was a brief half-smile, then she returned her attention to the weavings. ‘What officers will Tene Baralta choose, do you imagine?’
‘Red Blades, Adjunct. How the Malazan recruits will take-’
‘And Blistig?’
‘Only one seemed worthy of his rank-and he’s now in the Aren Guard and so not available to Blistig,’ Gamet replied. ‘A captain, Keneb-’
‘Malazan?’
‘Yes, though stationed here in Seven Cities. He lost his troops, Adjunct, to the renegade, Korbolo Dom. It was Keneb who warned Blistig about Mallick Rel-’
‘Indeed. So, apart from Captain Keneb?’
Gamet shook his head. ‘I feel for Blistig at the moment.’
‘Do you?’
‘Well, I didn’t say what I was feeling, Adjunct.’
She faced him again. ‘Pity?’
‘Some of that,’ he allowed after a moment.
‘Do you know what bothers Blistig the most, Fist?’
‘Witnessing the slaughter-’
‘He may well claim that and hope that you believe it, but you are wrong to do so. Blistig disobeyed a High Fist’s order. He stands before me, his new commander, and believes I hold no faith in him. From that, he concludes that it would be best for everyone concerned if I were to send him to Unta, to face the Empress.’ She turned away again, was silent.
Gamet’s thoughts raced, but he finally had to conclude that Tavore’s thoughts proceeded on levels too deep for him to fathom. ‘What is it you wish me to tell him?’
‘You think I wish you to tell him something from me? Very well. He may have Captain Keneb.’
A side door swung open and Gamet turned to see three Wickans enter. Two were children, the third one not much older. While the Fist had yet to meet them, he knew who they must be. Nether and Nil. The witch and the warlock. And the lad with them is Temul, the eldest among the warrior youths Coltaine sent with the historian.
Only Temul seemed pleased at having been summoned into the Adjunct’s presence. Nil and Nether were both unkempt, their feet bare and almost grey with layers of dirt. Nether’s long black hair hung in greasy ropes. Nil’s deer-hide tunic was scarred and torn. Both held expressions of disinterest. In contrast, Temul’s war gear was immaculate, as was the mask of deep red face paint denoting his grief, and his dark eyes glittered like sharp stones as he drew himself to attention before the Adjunct.
But Tavore’s attention was on Nil and Nether. ‘The Fourteenth Army lacks mages,’ she said. ‘Therefore, you will now be acting in that capacity.’
‘No, Adjunct,’ Nether replied.
‘This matter is not open for discussion-’
Nil spoke. ‘We want to go home,’ he said. ‘To the Wickan plains.’
The Adjunct studied them for a moment, then, gaze unwavering, said, ‘Temul, Coltaine placed you in charge of the Wickan youths from the three tribes present in the Chain of Dogs. What is the complement?’
‘Thirty,’ the youth replied.
‘And how many Wickans were among the wounded delivered by ship to Aren?’
‘Eleven survived.’
‘Thus, forty-one in all. Are there any warlocks among your company?’
‘No, Adjunct.’
‘When Coltaine sent you with the historian Duiker, did he attach warlocks to your company at that time?’
Temul’s eyes flicked to Nil and Nether for a moment, then his head jerked in a nod. ‘Yes.’
‘And has your company been officially dissolved, Temul?’
‘No.’
‘In other words, Coltaine’s last command to you still obtains.’ She addressed Nil and Nether once more. ‘Your request is denied. I have need of both you and Captain Temul’s Wickan lancers.’
‘We can give you nothing,’ Nether replied. ‘The warlock spirits within us are silent,’ Nil added. Tavore slowly blinked as she continued to regard them. Then she said, ‘You shall have to find a means of awakening them once more. The day we close to battle with Sha’ik and the Whirlwind, I expect you to employ your sorcery to defend the legions. Captain Temul, are you the eldest among the Wickans in your company?’
‘No, Adjunct. There are four warriors of the Foolish Dog, who were on the ship bearing the wounded.’
‘Do they resent your command?’
The youth drew himself straighter. ‘They do not,’ he replied, his right hand settling on the grip of one of his long knives. Gamet winced and looked away.
‘You three are dismissed,’ the Adjunct said after a moment. Temul hesitated, then spoke. ‘Adjunct, my company wishes to fight. Are we to be attached to the legions?’
Tavore tilted her head. ‘Captain Temul, how many summers have you seen?’
‘Fourteen.’
The Adjunct nodded. ‘At present, Captain, our mounted troops are limited to a company of Seti volunteers, five hundred in all. In military terms, they are light cavalry at best, scouts and outriders at worst. None have seen battle, and none are much older than you. Your own command consists of forty Wickans, all but four younger than you. For our march northward, Captain Temul, your company will be attached to my entourage. As bodyguards. The ablest riders among the Seti will act as messengers and scouts. Understand, I have not the forces to mount a cavalry engagement. The Fourteenth Army is predominantly infantry.’
‘Coltaine’s tactics-’
‘This is no longer Coltaine’s war,’ Tavore snapped.
Temul flinched as if struck. He managed a stiff nod, then turned on his heel and departed the chamber. Nil and Nether followed a moment later.
Gamet let out a shaky breath. ‘The lad wanted to bring good news to his Wickans.’
‘To silence the grumbling from the four Foolish Dog warriors,’ the Adjunct said, her voice still holding a tone of irritation. ‘Aptly named indeed. Tell me, Fist, how do you think the discussion between Blistig and Tene Baralta is proceeding at this moment?’
The old veteran grunted. ‘Heatedly, I would imagine, Adjunct. Tene Baralta likely expected to retain his Red Blades as a discrete regiment. I doubt he has much interest in commanding four thousand Malazan recruits.’
‘And the admiral, who waits below in the mess hall?’
‘To that, I have no idea, Adjunct. His taciturnity is legend.’
‘Why, do you think, did he not simply usurp High Fist Pormqual? Why did he permit the annihilation of Coltaine and the Seventh, then of the High Fist’s own army?’
Gamet could only shake his head.
Tavore studied him for another half-dozen heartbeats, then slowly made her way to the scrolls lying on the tabletop. She drew one out and removed its ties. ‘The Empress never had cause to question Admiral Nok’s loyalty.’
‘Nor Dujek Onearm’s,’ Gamet muttered under his breath. She heard and looked up, then offered a tight, momentary smile. ‘Indeed. One meeting remains to us.’ Tucking the scroll under one arm, she strode towards a small side door. ‘Come.’
The room beyond was low-ceilinged, its walls virtually covered in tapestries. Thick rugs silenced their steps as they entered. A modest round table occupied the centre, beneath an ornate oil lamp that was the only source of light. There was a second door opposite, low and narrow. The table was the chamber’s sole piece of furniture.
Tavore dropped the scroll onto its battered top as Gamet shut the door behind him. When he turned he saw that she was facing him. There was a sudden vulnerability in her eyes that triggered a clutching anxiety in his gut-for it was something he had never before seen from this daughter of House Paran. ‘Adjunct?’
She broke the contact, visibly recovered. ‘In this room,’ she quietly said, ‘the Empress is not present.’
Gamet’s breath caught, then he jerked his head in a nod. The smaller door opened, and the Fist turned to see a tall, almost effeminate man, clothed in grey, a placid smile on his handsome features as he took a step into the chamber. An armoured woman followed-an officer of the Red Blades. Her skin was dark and tattooed in Pardu style, her eyes black and large, set wide above high cheekbones, her nose narrow and aquiline. She seemed anything but pleased, her gaze fixing on the Adjunct with an air of calculating arrogance. ‘Close the door behind you, Captain,’ Tavore said to the Red Blade. The grey-clad man was regarding Gamet, his smile turning faintly quizzical. ‘Fist Gamet,’ he said. ‘I imagine you are wishing you were still in Unta, that bustling heart of the empire, arguing with horse-traders on behalf of House Paran. Instead, here you are, a soldier once more-’
Gamet scowled and said, ‘I am afraid I do not know you-’
‘You may call me Pearl,’ the man replied, hesitating on the name as if its revelation was the core of some vast joke of which only he was aware. ‘And my lovely companion is Captain Lostara Yil, late of the Red Blades but now-happily-seconded into my care.’ He swung to the Adjunct and elaborately bowed. ‘At your service.’
Gamet could see Tavore’s expression tighten fractionally. ‘That remains to be seen.’
Pearl slowly straightened, the mockery in his face gone. ‘Adjunct, you have quietly-very quietly-arranged this meeting. This stage has no audience. While I am a Claw, you and I are both aware that I have-lately-incurred my master Topper’s-and the Empress’s-displeasure, resulting in my hasty journey through the Imperial Warren. A temporary situation, of course, but none the less, the consequence is that I am at something of a loose end at the moment.’
‘Then one might conclude,’ the Adjunct said carefully, ‘that you are available, as it were, for a rather more… private enterprise.’ Gamet shot her a glance. Gods below! What is this about? ‘One might,’ Pearl replied, shrugging.
There was silence, broken at last by the Red Blade, Lostara Yil. ‘I am made uneasy by the direction of this conversation,’ she grated. ‘As a loyal subject of the empire-’
‘Nothing of what follows will impugn your honour, Captain,’ the Adjunct replied, her gaze unwavering on Pearl. She added nothing more. The Claw half smiled then. ‘Ah, now you’ve made me curious. I delight in being curious, did you know that? You fear that I will bargain my way back into Laseen’s favour, for the mission you would propose to the captain and me is, to be precise, not on behalf of the Empress, nor, indeed, of the empire. An extraordinary departure from the role of Imperial Adjunct. Unprecedented, in fact.’ Gamet took a step forward, ‘Adjunct-’
She raised a hand to cut him off. ‘Pearl, the task I would set to you and the captain may well contribute, ultimately, to the well-being of the empire-’
‘Oh well,’ the Claw smiled, ‘that is what a good imagination is for, isn’t it? One can scrape patterns in the blood no matter how dried it’s become. I admit to no small skill in attributing sound justification for whatever I’ve just done. By all means, proceed-’
‘Not yet!’ Lostara Yil snapped, her exasperation plain. ‘In serving the Adjunct I expect to serve the empire. She is the will of the Empress. No other considerations are permitted her-’
‘You speak true,’ Tavore said. She faced Pearl again. ‘Claw, how fares the Talon?’
Pearl’s eyes went wide and he almost rocked back a step. ‘They no longer exist,’ he whispered.
The Adjunct frowned. ‘Disappointing. We are all, at the moment, in a precarious position. If you are to expect honesty from me, then can I not do so in return?’
‘They remain,’ Pearl muttered, distaste twisting his features. ‘Like bot-fly larvae beneath the imperial hide. When we probe, they simply dig deeper.’
‘They none the less serve a certain… function,’ Tavore said. ‘Unfortunately, not as competently as I would have hoped.’
‘The Talons have found support among the nobility?’ Pearl asked, a sheen of sweat now visible on his high brow.
The Adjunct’s shrug was almost indifferent. ‘Does that surprise you?’
Gamet could almost see the Claw’s thoughts racing. Racing on, and on, his expression growing ever more astonished and… dismayed. ‘Name him,’ he said.
‘Baudin.’
‘He was assassinated in Quon-’
‘The father was. Not the son.’
Pearl suddenly began pacing in the small chamber. ‘And this son, how much like the bastard who spawned him? Baudin Elder left Claw corpses scattered in alleys throughout the city. The hunt lasted four entire nights…’
‘I had reason to believe,’ Tavore said, ‘that he was worthy of his father’s name.’
Pearl’s head turned. ‘But no longer?’
‘I cannot say. I believe, however, that his mission has gone terribly wrong.’
The name slipped from Gamet’s lips unbidden but with a certainty heavy as an anchor-stone: ‘Felisin.’
He saw the wince in Tavore’s face, before she turned away from all three of them to study one of the tapestries.
Pearl seemed far ahead in his thoughts. ‘When was contact lost, Adjunct? And where?’
‘The night of the Uprising,’ she replied, her back to them still. ‘The mining camp called Skullcup. But there had been a… a loss of control for some weeks before then.’ She gestured at the scroll on the table. ‘Details, potential contacts. Burn the scroll once you have completed reading it, and scatter the ashes in the bay.’ She faced them suddenly. ‘Pearl. Captain Lostara Yil. Find Felisin. Find my sister.’
The roar of the mob rose and fell in the city beyond the estate’s walls. It was the Season of Rot in Unta, and, in the minds of thousands of denizens, that rot was being excised. The dreaded Cull had begun.
Captain Gamet stood by the gatehouse, flanked by three nervous guards. The estate’s torches had been doused, the house behind them dark, its windows shuttered. And within that massive structure huddled the last child of Paran, her parents gone since the arrests earlier that day, her brother lost and presumably dead on a distant continent, her sister-her sister… madness had come once again to the empire, with the fury of a tropical storm…
Gamet had but twelve guards, and three of those had been hired in the last few days, when the stillness of the air in the streets had whispered to the captain that the horror was imminent. No proclamations had been issued, no imperial edict to fire-lick the commoners’ greed and savagery into life. There were but rumours, racing through the city’s streets, alleys and market rounds like dust-devils. ‘The Empress is displeased.’
‘Behind the rot of the imperial army’s incompetent command, you will find the face of the nobility.’
‘The purchase of commissions is a plague threatening the entire empire. Is it any wonder the Empress is displeased?’
A company of Red Blades had arrived from Seven Cities. Cruel killers, incorruptible and far removed from the poison of noble coin. It was not difficult to imagine the reason behind their appearance.
The first wave of arrests had been precise, almost understated. Squads in the dead of night. There had been no skirmishes with house guards, no estates forewarned to purchase time to raise barricades, or even flee the city.
And Gamet thought he knew how such a thing came to pass. Tavore was now the Adjunct to the Empress. Tavore knew… her kind.
The captain sighed, then strode forward to the small inset door at the gate. He drew the heavy bolt, let the iron bar drop with a clank. He faced the three guards. ‘Your services are no longer required. In the murder hole you’ll find your pay.’
Two of the three armoured men exchanged a glance, then, one of them shrugging, they walked to the door. The third man had not moved. Gamet recalled that he’d given his name as Kollen-a Quon name and a Quon accent. He had been hired more for his imposing presence than anything else, though Gamet’s practised eye had detected a certain… confidence, in the way the man wore his armour, seemingly indifferent to its weight, hinting at a martial grace that belonged only to a professional soldier. He knew next to nothing of Kollen’s past, but these were desperate times, and in any case none of the three new hirelings had been permitted into the house itself.
In the gloom beneath the gatehouse lintel, Gamet now studied the motionless guard. Through the tidal roar of the rampaging mob that drew ever closer came shrill screams, lifting into the night a despairing chorus. ‘Make this easy, Kollen,’ he said quietly. ‘There are four of my men twenty paces behind you, crossbows cocked and fixed on your back.’
The huge man tilted his head. ‘Nine of you. In less than a quarter-bell several hundred looters and murderers will come calling.’ He slowly looked around, as if gauging the estate’s walls, the modest defences, then returned his steady gaze to Gamet.
The captain scowled. ‘No doubt you would have made it even easier for them. As it is, we might bloody their noses enough to encourage them to seek somewhere else.’
‘No, you won’t, Captain. Things will simply get… messier.’
‘Is this how the Empress simplifies matters, Kollen? An unlocked gate. Loyal guards cut down from behind. Have you honed your knife for my back?’
‘I am not here at the behest of the Empress, Captain.’
Gamet’s eyes narrowed.
‘No harm is to come to her,’ the man went on after a moment. ‘Provided I have your full co-operation. But we are running out of time.’
‘This is Tavore’s answer? What of her parents? There was nothing to suggest that their fate would be any different from that of the others who’d been rounded up.’
‘Alas, the Adjunct’s options are limited. She is under some… scrutiny.’
‘What is planned for Felisin, Kollen-or whoever you are?’
‘A brief stint in the otataral mines-’
‘What!?’
‘She will not be entirely alone. A guardian will accompany her. Understand, Captain, it is this, or the mob outside.’
Nine loyal guards cut down, blood on the floors and walls, a handful of servants overwhelmed at flimsy barricades outside the child’s bedroom door. Then, for the child… no-one. ‘Who is this “guardian”, then, Kollen?’
The man smiled. ‘Me, Captain. And no, my true name is not Kollen.’
Gamet stepped up to him, until their faces were but a hand’s width apart. ‘If any harm comes to her, I will find you. And I don’t care if you’re a Claw-’
‘I am not a Claw, Captain. As for harm coming to Felisin, I regret to say that there will be some. It cannot be helped. We must hope she is resilient-it is a Paran trait, yes?’
After a long moment, Gamet stepped back, suddenly resigned. ‘Do you kill us now or later?’
The man’s brows rose. ‘I doubt I could manage that, given those crossbows levelled behind me. No, but I am to ask that you now escort me to a safe house. At all costs, we must not permit the child to fall into the mob’s hands. Can I rely upon your help in this, Captain?’
‘Where is this safe house?’
‘On the Avenue of Souls.’
Gamet grimaced. Judgement’s Round. To the chains. Oh, Beru guard you, lass. He strode past Kollen. ‘I will awaken her.’
Pearl stood at the round table, leaning on both hands, his head lowered as he studied the scroll. The Adjunct had departed half a bell past, her Fist on her heels like a misshapen shadow. Lostara waited, arms crossed, with her back against the door through which Tavore and Gamet had left. She had held silent during the length of Pearl’s perusal of the scroll, her anger and frustration growing with each passing moment.
Finally, she’d had enough. ‘I will have no part of this. Return me to Tene Baralta’s command.’
Pearl did not look up. ‘As you wish, my dear,’ he murmured, then added: ‘Of course I will have to kill you at some point-certainly before you report to your commander. It’s the hard rules of clandestine endeavours, I regret to say.’
‘Since when are you at the Adjunct’s beck and call, Pearl?’
‘Why,’ he glanced up and met her gaze, ‘ever since she unequivocally reasserted her loyalty to the Empress, of course.’ He returned his attention to the scroll.
Lostara scowled. ‘I’m sorry, I think I missed that part of the conversation.’
‘Not surprising,’ Pearl replied, ‘since it resided in between the words actually spoken.’ He smiled at her. ‘Precisely where it belonged.’
With a hiss, Lostara began pacing, struggled against an irrational desire to take a knife blade to these damned tapestries and their endless scenes of past glories. ‘You will have to explain, Pearl,’ she growled.
‘And will that relieve your conscience sufficiently to return you to my side? Very well. The resurgence of the noble class in the chambers of imperial power has been uncommonly swift. Indeed, one might say unnaturally so. Almost as if they were receiving help-but who? we wondered. Oh, absurd rumours of the return of the Talons persisted. And every now and then some poor fool who’d been arrested for something completely unrelated went and confessed to being a Talon, but they were young, caught up in romantic notions and the lure of cults and whatnot. They might well call themselves Talons, but they did not even come close to the real organization, to Dancer’s own-of which many of us Claw possessed firsthand experience.
‘In any case, back to the matter at hand. Tavore is of noble blood, and it’s now clear that a truly covert element of Talons has returned to plague us, and has been making use of the nobility. Placing sympathetic agents in the military and administration-a mutually profitable infiltration. But Tavore is now the Adjunct, and as such, her old ties, her old loyalties, must needs be severed.’ Pearl paused to tap a finger on the laid-out scroll before him. ‘She has given us the Talons, Captain. We will find this Baudin Younger, and from him we will unravel the entire organization.’
Lostara said nothing for a long moment. ‘In a sense, then,’ she said, ‘our mission is not extraneous to the interests of the empire after all.’ Pearl flashed a smile.
‘But if so,’ Lostara continued, ‘why didn’t the Adjunct just say so?’
‘Oh, I think we can leave that question unanswered for the time being-’
‘No, I would have it answered now!’
Pearl sighed. ‘Because, my dear, for Tavore, the surrendering of the Talons is secondary to our finding Felisin. And that is extraneous, and not only extraneous, but also damning. Do you think the Empress would smile upon this clever little scheme, the lie behind this all-too-public demonstration of the new Adjunct’s loyalty? Sending her sister to the otataral mines! Hood take us all, that’s a hard woman! The Empress has chosen well, has she not?’
Lostara grimaced. Chosen well… based on what, though? ‘Indeed she has.’
‘Aye, I agree. It’s a fair exchange in any case-we save Felisin and are rewarded with a principal agent of the Talons. The Empress will no doubt wonder what we were doing out on the Otataral Isle in the first place-’
‘You will have to lie to her, won’t you?’
Pearl’s smile broadened. ‘We both will, lass. As would the Adjunct, and Fist Gamet if it came to that. Unless, of course, I take what the Adjunct has offered me. Offered me personally, that is.’
Lostara slowly nodded. ‘You are at a loose end. Yes. Out of favour with the Clawmaster and the Empress. Eager to make reparations. An independent mission-you somehow latched onto the rumour of a true Talon, and set off on his trail. Thus, the credit for unravelling the Talons is to be yours, and yours alone.’
‘Or ours,’ Pearl corrected. ‘If you so desire.’
She shrugged. ‘We can decide that later. Very well, Pearl. Now,’ she moved to his side, ‘what are these details with which the Adjunct has so kindly provided us?’
Admiral Nok had been facing the hearth, his gaze on its cold ashes. At the sound of the door opening, he slowly turned, his expression as impassive as ever.
‘Thank you,’ the Adjunct said, ‘for your patience.’
The admiral said nothing, his level gaze shifting to Gamet for a moment.
The midnight bell’s muted echoes were only now fading. The Fist was exhausted, feeling fragile and scattered, unable to meet Nok’s eyes for very long. This night, he’d been little more than the Adjunct’s pet, or worse, a familiar. Tacitly conjoined with her plans within plans, bereft of even so much as the illusion of a choice. When Tavore had first drawn him into her entourage-shortly after Felisin’s arrest-Gamet had briefly considered slipping away, vanishing in the time-honoured tradition of Malazan soldiers who found themselves in unwelcome circumstances. But he hadn’t, and his reasons for joining the Adjunct’s core of advisers-not that they were ever invited to advise-had, upon ruthless self-reflection, proved less than laudable. He had been driven by macabre curiosity. Tavore had ordered the arrests of her parents, had sent her younger sister into the horrors of the otataral mines. For her career’s sake. Her brother, Paran, had in some way been disgraced on Genabackis. He had subsequently deserted. An embarrassment, granted, but surely not sufficient to warrant Tavore’s reaction. Unless… There were rumours that the lad had been an agent of Adjunct Lorn’s, and that his desertion had led, ultimately, to the woman’s death in Darujhistan. Yet, if that were true, then why did the Empress turn her royal gaze upon another child of the House of Paran? Why make Tavore the new Adjunct? ‘Fist Gamet.’ He blinked. ‘Adjunct?’
‘Seat yourself, please. I would have some final words with you, but they can wait for the time being.’
Nodding, Gamet glanced around until he spied the lone high-backed chair set against one of the small room’s walls. It looked anything but comfortable, which was probably an advantage, given his weariness.
Ominous creaks sounded when he settled into the chair and he grimaced. ‘No wonder Pormqual didn’t send this one off with all the rest,’ he muttered.
‘It is my understanding,’ Nok said, ‘that the transport ship in question sank in the harbour of Malaz City, taking the late High Fist’s loot with it.’
Gamet’s wiry brows rose. ‘All that way… just to sink in the harbour? What happened?’
The admiral shrugged. ‘None of the crew reached the shore to tell the tale.’
None?
Nok seemed to note his scepticism, for he elaborated, ‘Malaz Harbour is well known for its sharks. A number of dories were found, all awash but otherwise empty.’
The Adjunct had, uncharacteristically, been permitting the exchange to continue, leading Gamet to wonder if Tavore had sensed a hidden significance to the mysterious loss of the transport ship. Now she spoke. ‘It remains, then, a peculiar curse-unexplained founderings, empty dories, lost crews. Malaz Harbour is indeed notorious for its sharks, particularly since they seem uniquely capable of eating victims whole, leaving no remnants whatsoever.’
‘There are sharks that can do just that,’ Nok replied. ‘I know of at least twelve ships on the muddy bottom of the harbour in question-’
‘Including the Twisted,’ the Adjunct drawled, ‘the old emperor’s flagship, which mysteriously slipped its moorings the night after the assassinations, then promptly plummeted into the deeps, taking its resident demon with it.’
‘Perhaps it likes company,’ Nok observed. ‘The island’s fishermen all swear the harbour’s haunted, after all. The frequency with which nets are lost-’
‘Admiral,’ Tavore cut in, her eyes resting on the dead hearth, ‘there is you, and three others. All who are left.’
Gamet slowly straightened in his chair. Three others. High Mage Tayschrenn, Dujek Onearm, and Whiskeyjack. Four… gods, is that all now? Tattersail, Bellurdan, Nightchill, Duiker… so many fallen-
Admiral Nok was simply studying the Adjunct. He had stood against the wrath of the Empress, first with Cartheron Crust’s disappearance, then Urko’s and Ameron’s. Whatever answers he had given, he had done so long ago.
‘I do not speak for the Empress,’ Tavore said after a moment. ‘Nor am I interested in… details. What interests me is… a matter of personal… curiosity. I would seek to understand, Admiral, why they abandoned her.’
There was silence, filling the room, growing towards something like an impasse. Gamet leaned back and closed his eyes. Ah, lass, you ask questions of… of loyalty, as would someone who has never experienced it. You reveal to this admiral what can only be construed as a critical flaw. You command the Fourteenth Army, Adjunct, yet you do so in isolation, raising the very barricades you must needs take down if you would truly lead. What does Nok think of this, now? Is it any wonder he does not-
‘The answer to your question,’ the admiral said, ‘lies in what was both a strength and a flaw of the Emperor’s… family. The family that he gathered to raise an empire. Kellanved began with but one companion-Dancer. The two then hired a handful of locals in Malaz City and set about conquering the criminal element in the city-I should point out, that criminal element happened to rule the entire island. Their target was Mock, Malaz Island’s unofficial ruler. A pirate, and a cold-blooded killer.’
‘Who were these first hirelings, Admiral?’
‘Myself, Ameron, Dujek, a woman named Hawl-my wife. I had been First Mate to a corsair that worked the sea lanes around the Napan Isles-which had just been annexed by Unta and were providing a staging point for the Untan king’s planned invasion of Kartool. We’d taken a beating and had limped into Malaz Harbour, only to have the ship and its crew arrested by Mock, who was negotiating a trade of prisoners with Unta. Only Ameron and Hawl and I escaped. A lad named Dujek discovered where we were holed up and he delivered us to his new employers. Kellanved and Dancer.’
‘Was this before they were granted entry into the Deadhouse?’ Gamet asked.
‘Aye, but only just. Our residency in the Deadhouse rewarded us with-as is now clearly evident-certain gifts. Longevity, immunity to most diseases, and… other things. The Deadhouse also provided us with an unassailable base of operations. Dancer later bolstered our numbers by recruiting among the refugee Napans who’d fled the conquest: Cartheron Crust and his brother, Urko. And Surly-Laseen. Three more men were to follow shortly thereafter. Toc Elder, Dassem Ultor-who was, like Kellanved, of Dal Honese blood-and a renegade High Septarch of the D’rek Cult, Tayschrenn. And finally, Duiker.’ He half smiled at Tavore. ‘The family. With which Kellanved conquered Malaz Island. Swiftly done, with minimal losses…’
Minimal… ‘Your wife,’ Gamet said.
‘Yes, her.’ After a long moment, he shrugged and continued, ‘To answer you, Adjunct. Unknown to the rest of us, the Napans among us were far more than simple refugees. Surly was of the royal line. Crust and Urko had been captains in the Napan fleet, a fleet that would have likely repelled the Untans if it hadn’t been virtually destroyed by a sudden storm. As it turned out, theirs was a singular purpose-to crush the Untan hegemony-and they planned on using Kellanved to achieve that. In a sense, that was the first betrayal within the family, the first fissure. Easily healed, it seemed, since Kellanved already possessed imperial ambitions, and of the two major rivals on the mainland, Unta was by far the fiercest.’
‘Admiral,’ Tavore said, ‘I see where this leads. Surly’s assassination of Kellanved and Dancer shattered that family irrevocably, but that is precisely where my understanding falters. Surly had taken the Napan cause to its penultimate conclusion. Yet it was not you, not Tayschrenn, Duiker, Dassem Ultor or Toc Elder who… disappeared. It was… Napans.’
‘Barring Ameron,’ Gamet pointed out.
The admiral’s lined face stretched as he bared his teeth in a humourless grin. ‘Ameron was half-Napan.’
‘So it was only the Napans who deserted the new Empress?’ Gamet stared up at Nok, now as confused as Tavore. ‘Yet Surly was of the royal Napan line?’
Nok said nothing for a long time, then he sighed. ‘Shame is a fierce, vigorous poison. To now serve the new Empress… complicity and damnation. Crust, Urko and Ameron were not party to the betrayal… but who would believe them? Who could not help but see them as party to the murderous plot? Yet, in truth,’ his eyes met Tavore’s, ‘Surly had included none of us in her scheme-she could not afford to. She had the Claw, and that was all she needed.’
‘And where were the Talons in all this?’ Gamet asked, then cursed himself-ah, gods, too tired-
Nok’s eyes widened for the first time that night. ‘You’ve a sharp memory, Fist.’
Gamet clamped his jaws tight, sensing the Adjunct’s hard stare fixing on him.
The admiral continued, ‘I am afraid I have no answer to that. I was not in Malaz City on that particular night; nor have I made enquiries to those who were. The Talons essentially vanished with Dancer’s death. It was widely believed that the Claw had struck them down in concert with the assassinations of Dancer and the Emperor.’
The Adjunct’s tone was suddenly curt. ‘Thank you, Admiral, for your words this night. I will keep you no longer.’
The man bowed, then strode from the room.
Gamet waited with held breath, ready for her fiercest castigation. Instead, she simply sighed. ‘You have much work ahead of you, Fist, in assembling your legion. Best retire now.’
‘Adjunct,’ he acknowledged, pushing himself to his feet. He hesitated, then with a nod strode to the door.
‘Gamet.’
He turned. ‘Yes?’
‘Where is T’amber?’
‘She awaits you in your chambers, Adjunct.’
‘Very well. Goodnight, Fist.’
‘And to you, Adjunct.’
Buckets of salt water had been sloshed across the cobbled centre aisle of the stables, which had the effect of damping the dust and sending the biting flies into a frenzy, as well as making doubly rank the stench of horse piss. Strings, standing just within the doors, could already feel his sinuses stinging. His searching gaze found four figures seated on bound rolls of straw near the far end. Scowling, the Bridgeburner shifted the weight of the pack on his shoulder, then headed over.
‘Who was the bright spark missing the old smells of home?’ he drawled as he approached.
The half-Seti warrior named Koryk grunted, then said, ‘That would be Lieutenant Ranal, who then had a quick excuse to leave us for a time.’ He’d found a flap of hide from somewhere and was cutting long strands from it with a thin-bladed pig-sticker. Strings had seen his type before, obsessed with tying things down, or worse, tying things to their bodies. Not just fetishes, but loot, extra equipment, tufts of grass or leafy branches depending on the camouflage being sought. In this case, Strings half expected to see twists of straw sprouting from the man.
For centuries the Seti had fought a protracted war with the city-states of Quon and Li Heng, defending the barely inhabitable lands that had been their traditional home. Hopelessly outnumbered and perpetually on the run, they had learned the art of hiding the hard way. But the Seti lands had been pacified for sixty years now; almost three generations had lived in that ambivalent, ambiguous border that was the edge of civilization. The various tribes had dissolved into a single, murky nation, with mixed-bloods coming to dominate the population. What had befallen them had been the impetus, in fact, for Coltaine’s rebellion and the Wickan Wars-for Coltaine had clearly seen that a similar fate awaited his own people.
It was not, Strings had come to believe, a question of right and wrong. Some cultures were inward-looking. Others were aggressive. The former were rarely capable of mustering a defence against the latter, not without metamorphosing into some other thing, a thing twisted by the exigencies of desperation and violence. The original Seti had not even ridden horses. Yet now they were known as horse warriors, a taller, darker-skinned and more morose kind of Wickan.
Strings knew little of Koryk’s personal history, but he felt he could guess. Half-bloods did not lead pleasant lives. That Koryk had chosen to emulate the old Seti ways, whilst joining the Malazan army as a marine rather than a horse warrior, spoke tomes of the clash in the man’s scarred soul.
Setting down his pack, Strings stood before the four recruits. ‘As much as I hate to confess it, I am now your sergeant. Officially, you’re 4th Squad, one of three squads under Lieutenant Ranal’s command. The 5th and 6th squads are supposedly on their way over from the tent city west of Aren. We’re all in the 9th Company, which consists of three squads of heavy infantry, three of marines, and eighteen squads of medium infantry. Our commander is a man named Captain Keneb-and no, I’ve not met him and know nothing of him. Nine companies in all, making up the 8th Legion-us. The 8th is under the command of Fist Gamet, who I gather is a veteran who’d retired to the Adjunct’s household before she became the Adjunct.’ He paused, grimacing at the slightly glazed faces before him. ‘But never mind all that. You’re in the 4th Squad. We’ve got one more coming, but even with that one we’re undermanned as a squad, but so are all the others and before you ask, I ain’t privy to the reasons for that. Now, any questions yet?’
Three men and one young woman sat in silence, staring up at him.
Strings sighed, and pointed to the nondescript soldier sitting to Koryk’s left. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
A bewildered look, then, ‘My real name, Sergeant, or the one the drill sergeant in Malaz City gave me?’
By the man’s accent and his pale, stolid features, Strings knew him as being from Li Heng. That being the case, his real name was probably a mouthful: nine, ten or even fifteen names all strung together. ‘Your new one, soldier.’
‘Tarr.’
Koryk spoke up. ‘If you’d seen him on the training ground, you’d understand. Once he’s planted his feet behind that shield of his, you could hit him with a battering ram and he won’t budge.’
Strings studied Tarr’s placid, pallid eyes. ‘All right. You’re now Corporal Tarr-’
The woman, who’d been chewing on a straw, suddenly choked.
Coughing, spitting out pieces of the straw, she glared up at Strings with disbelief. ‘What? Him? He never says nothing, never does nothing unless he’s told, never-’
‘Glad to hear all that,’ Strings cut in laconically. ‘The perfect corporal, especially that bit about not talking.’
The woman’s expression tightened, then unveiled a small sneer as she looked away in feigned disinterest.
‘And what is your name, soldier?’ Strings asked her.
‘My real name-’
‘I don’t care what you used to be called. None of you. Most of us get new ones and that’s just the way it is.’
‘I didn’t,’ Koryk growled.
Ignoring him, Strings continued, ‘Your name, lass?’
Sour contempt at the word lass.
‘Drill sergeant named her Smiles,’ Koryk said.
‘Smiles?’
‘Aye. She never does.’
Eyes narrowing, Strings swung to the last soldier, a rather plain young man wearing leathers but no weapon. ‘And yours?’
‘Bottle.’
‘Who was your drill sergeant?’ he demanded to the four recruits.
Koryk leaned back as he replied, ‘Braven Tooth-’
‘Braven Tooth! That bastard’s still alive?’
‘It was hard to tell at times,’ Smiles muttered.
‘Until his temper snapped,’ Koryk added. ‘Just ask Corporal Tarr there. Braven Tooth spent near two bells pounding on him with a mace. Couldn’t get past the shield.’
Strings glared at his new corporal. ‘Where’d you learn that skill?’
The man shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Don’t like getting hit.’
‘Well, do you ever counter-attack?’
Tarr frowned. ‘Sure. When they’re tired.’
Strings was silent for a long moment. Braven Tooth-he was dumbfounded. The bastard was grizzled back when… when the whole naming thing began. It had been Braven who’d started it. Braven who’d named most of the Bridgeburners. Whiskeyjack. Trotts, Mallet, Hedge, Blend, Picker, Toes… Fiddler himself had avoided a new name through his basic training; it had been Whiskeyjack who’d named him, on that first ride through Raraku. He shook his head, glanced sidelong at Tarr. ‘You should be a heavy infantryman, Corporal, with a talent like that. The marines are supposed to be fast, nimble-avoiding the toe-to-toe whenever possible or, if there’s no choice, making it quick.’
‘I’m good with a crossbow,’ Tarr said, shrugging.
‘And a fast loader,’ Koryk added. ‘It was that that made Braven decide to make him a marine.’
Smiles spoke. ‘So who named Braven Tooth, Sergeant?’
I did, after the bastard left one of his in my shoulder the night of the brawl. The brawl we all later denied happening. Gods, so many years ago, now… ‘I have no idea,’ he said. He shifted his attention back to the man named Bottle. ‘Where’s your sword, soldier?’
‘I don’t use one.’
‘Well, what do you use?’
The man shrugged. ‘This and that.’
‘Well, Bottle, someday I’d like to hear how you got through basic training without picking up a weapon-no, not now. Not tomorrow either, not even next week. For now, tell me what I should be using you for.’
‘Scouting. Quiet work.’
‘As in sneaking up behind someone. What do you do then? Tap him on the shoulder? Never mind.’ This man smells like a mage to me, only he doesn’t want to advertise it. Fine, be that way, we’ll twist it out of you sooner or later.
‘I do the same kind of work,’ Smiles said. She settled a forefinger on the pommel of one of the two thin-bladed knives at her belt. ‘But I finish things with these.’
‘So there’s only two soldiers in this outfit who can actually fight toe-to-toe?’
‘You said one more’s coming,’ Koryk pointed out.
‘We can all handle crossbows,’ Smiles added. ‘Except for Bottle.’
They heard voices from outside the commandeered stables, then figures appeared in the doorway, six in all, burdened with equipment. A deep voice called, ‘You put the latrine trench outside the barracks, for Hood’s sake! Bastards don’t teach ya anything these days?’
‘Compliments of Lieutenant Ranal,’ Strings said.
The soldier who’d spoken was in the lead as the squad approached. ‘Right. Met him.’
Aye, nothing more need be said on that. ‘I’m Sergeant Strings-we’re the 4th.’
‘Well hey,’ a second soldier said, grinning through his bushy red beard, ‘someone can count after all. These marines are full of surprises.’
‘Fifth,’ the first soldier said. There was a strange, burnished cast to the man’s skin, making Strings doubt his initial guess that he was Falari. Then he noted an identical sheen to the red-bearded soldier, as well as on a much younger man. ‘I’m Gesler,’ the first soldier added. ‘Temporarily sergeant of this next-to-useless squad.’
The red-bearded man dropped his pack to the floor. ‘We was coastal guards, me and Gesler and Truth. I’m Stormy. But Coltaine made us marines-’
‘Not Coltaine,’ Gesler corrected. ‘Captain Lull, it was, Queen harbour his poor soul.’
Strings simply stared at the two men.
Stormy scowled. ‘Got a problem with us?’ he demanded, face darkening.
‘Adjutant Stormy,’ Strings muttered. ‘Captain Gesler. Hood’s rattling bones-’
‘We ain’t none of those things any more,’ Gesler said. ‘Like I said, I’m now a sergeant, and Stormy’s my corporal. And the rest here… there’s Truth, Tavos Pond, Sands and Pella. Truth’s been with us since Hissar and Pella was a camp guard at the otataral mines-only a handful survived the uprising there, from what I gather.’
‘Strings, is it?’ Stormy’s small eyes had narrowed suspiciously. He nudged his sergeant. ‘Hey, Gesler, think we should have done that? Changed our names, I mean. This Strings here is Old Guard as sure as I’m a demon in my dear father’s eye.’
‘Let the bastard keep whatever name he wants,’ Gesler muttered. ‘All right, squad, find some place to drop your stuff. The 6th should be showing up any time, and the lieutenant, too. Word is, we’re all being mustered out to face the Adjunct’s lizard eyes in a day or two.’
The soldier Gesler had named Tavos Pond-a tall, dark, moustached man who was probably Korelri-spoke up. ‘So we should polish our equipment, Sergeant?’
‘Polish whatever you like,’ the man replied disinterestedly, ‘just not in public. As for the Adjunct, if she can’t handle a few scuffed up soldiers then she won’t last long. It’s a dusty world out there, and the sooner we blend in the better.’
Strings sighed. He was feeling more confident already. He faced his own soldiers. ‘Enough sitting on that straw. Start spreading it out to soak up this horse piss.’ He faced Gesler again. ‘A word with you in private?’
The man nodded. ‘Let’s head back outside.’
Moments later the two men stood on the cobbled courtyard of the estate that had once housed a well-off local merchant and was now the temporary bivouac for Ranal’s squads. The lieutenant had taken the house proper for himself, leaving Strings wondering what the man did with all those empty rooms.
They said nothing for a moment, then Strings grinned. ‘I can picture Whiskeyjack’s jaw dropping-the day I tell him you was my fellow sergeant in the new 8th Legion.’
Gesler scowled. ‘Whiskeyjack. He was busted down to sergeant before I was, the bastard. Mind you, I then made corporal, so I beat him after all.’
‘Except now you’re a sergeant again. While Whiskeyjack’s an outlaw. Try beating that.’
‘I just might,’ Gesler muttered.
‘Got concerns about the Adjunct?’ Strings quietly asked. The courtyard was empty, but even so…
‘Met her, you know. Oh, she’s as cold as Hood’s forked tongue. She impounded my ship.’
‘You had a ship?’
‘By rights of salvage, aye. I was the one who brought Coltaine’s wounded to Aren. And that’s the thanks I get.’
‘You could always punch her in the face. That’s what you usually end up doing to your superiors, sooner or later.’
‘I could at that. I’d have to get past Gamet, of course. The point I was making is this: she’s never commanded anything more than a damned noble household, and here she’s been handed three legions and told to reconquer an entire subcontinent.’ He glanced sidelong at Strings. ‘There wasn’t many Falari made it into the Bridgeburners. Bad timing, I think, but there was one.’
‘Aye, and I’m him.’
After a moment, Gesler grinned and held out his hand. ‘Strings. Fiddler. Sure.’
They clasped wrists. To Strings, the other man’s hand and arm felt like solid stone.
‘There’s an inn down the street,’ Gesler continued. ‘We need to swap stories, and I guarantee you, mine’s got yours beat by far.’
‘Oh, Gesler,’ Strings sighed, ‘I think you’re in for a surprise.’