After a long gentle curve and another long descent the narrow tunnel met a natural cavern, its floor levelled by dirt that Ho knew had been excavated from elsewhere further within. Its walls rose serried like the teeth of a comb, climbing in teardrop shape to an apex lost in the dark. A knot of men and women, a selection of the Pit's inmates, filled the floor. Lamps on tall poles lit the gathering in a dim gold light. Without slowing down Su pushed her way through the crowd, elbows jabbing and stick poking. ‘Out of the way, fools!’ she hissed.
Ho, following, squeezed past, nodding to inmates he knew who glared, holding shins and sides. ‘Sorry.’
Broaching the front he found the two newcomers, Treat and Grief, surrounded by a gang of the more hale men armed with spears. Both looked healthy and, if anything, bored by the proceedings. Grief especially radiated contempt, standing with arms crossed and mouth crooked as if ready to laugh. Yath and Sessin stood nearby. Catching sight of Ho, Yath pointed his staff. ‘Here he is! Of course he has come. Their Malazan confederate. We'll deal with you next, Ho.’
‘Confederate?’
‘You have been seen on many occasions secretly meeting with these two spies. Do you deny it?’
Ho scratched his scalp, shrugging. ‘Well, we've talked, yes. I've talked with everyone here at one time or another.’
‘Brilliant,’ Su muttered under her breath. ‘What are you doing here, Yath?’ she barked. ‘Is this a court? What are the charges? Under whose authority are you empowered?’
Yath stamped his staff on the soft ground. ‘Quiet, witch!’
‘Or you will deal with me later also? When will it end? How many will you kill?’
Behind his full beard Yath smiled and Ho realized that Su had overplayed her hand. He opened his arms, gesturing broadly. ‘No one here is going to die. What do you think I am? We are all civilized people down here – a description I extend even to you, Su. I am merely planning a small demonstration. A little show for our new friends meant to impress upon them the importance of our work.’ Yath glanced about the crowd entreatingly. ‘It is, after all, what they have come for. Is it not?’
From the nods and shouts of agreement, Ho understood that, as Su said, he had been withdrawn from the community for far too long now. How could their small brotherhood of scholars and mages have come to this? Singling out ‘spies’ for punishment; arming themselves; sowing fear? Those who would speak against Yath were obviously too disgusted to even bother coming down. Like himself.
‘We don't know what might happen, Yath. It's too dangerous.’
‘Silence! You have discredited yourself, Ho. Plotting with your fellow Malazans.’
‘Malazan? I'm from Li Heng, Yath.’
‘Exactly. From the very centre of the Malazan Empire.’ Yath waved the spearmen to move the prisoners forward. Sessin stepped up between Yath and the two, his hands twitching at his sides. Ho could only stare; the ignorance the man's statement revealed was stunning. How can one possibly reason one's way across such a gap?
‘Yath,’ Ho called, following with the crowd, ‘you know about as much about Malaz and Quon Tali as I know about Seven Cities! Many on the continent consider the Malazans occupiers just as you do!’ But the tall Seven Cities priest was no longer listening.
Amid the spearmen, Grief peered back to Ho. ‘What's gonna happen?’
‘Quiet,’ warned a number of the guards. Grief ignored them.
‘They're just going to… show you something. It's nothing physically threatening.’
The man's mouth pulled down as he glanced away, considering. ‘I'm kinda curious myself.’
Su, Ho noted, was watching the two with keen interest, her sharp eyes probing. After a moment she let out a cawing laugh. She edged her head up to Ho and smiled as before, touched the side of her hooked nose, winked.
‘What is it?’ he murmured.
‘Something else I smell. Took me a while to place it. Was a long time ago at the Council of All Clans.’
‘What?’
‘You'll see. You and Yath, I think. Ha!’
Ho snorted. ‘More of your games.’
‘Ha!’
The path led away to a crack in the stone wall of the cavern. Beaten earth steps led down through the narrow gap to another cavern, this one excavated from the layered, seared sedimentary stone that carried the Otataral ore. The spearmen pushed Treat and Grief to the fore where yath and Sessin waited. Beyond them, a walkway of earth climbed the far wall that appeared made of some smooth and glassy rock.
Grief glanced around. ‘This is it?’
Yath had at his mouth a grin of hungry triumph. He urged, ‘Look more closely. Raise the lights!’
Poles were taken down, lamps affixed, and re-straightened. The light blossomed, revealing a wall of dark green stone that held hidden depths where reflections glimmered. Ho watched as, stage by stage, slow realization took hold of Grief. ‘No – it can't be…’ the fellow murmured. His gaze went to the bulge excavated at the base, the slope up to a gaping cave opening, the jutting cliff above this cut off by the roof of the cavern. Of all the forgotten Gods,‘ he said. He looked to Yath, open unguarded wonder upon his dark Napan face. ‘A jade giant… I'd read of them, of course. But this…’ He shook his head, staggered beyond words.
Ho shared the man's astonishment; no matter how often he came down to look it stupefied, and humbled, every time. The oval cave, taller than two men, now transformed itself in his mind's eye to a mouth, yawning – or screaming. The bulge below, the chin. One then scaled this lower half of the face to the upper, then face to head, head to neck, and… and that was as far as Ho's imagination could carry the exercise. It became absurd. Unimaginable. How could such a thing possibly be constructed? Would it not collapse under its own colossal weight?
But of course, they come from elsewhere. Yet would not such a Realm, no matter how alien, possess its own properties, its own set of physical laws which could not be contravened? It was too much for Ho – as it had proved for this entire battalion of professional mages, scholars and theurgical researchers who had made the mystery their primary fixation for the last three decades.
All these revelations were lost on Treat who nudged Grief. ‘What is it?’
Grief just shrugged. ‘A fucking big statue.’
‘Come, come,’ urged Yath, starting up the walkway. ‘Come for a better look.’ He waved Grief to follow. The man's eyes were narrow in open distrust, but he clearly could not turn down such an opportunity. One of us after all. Ho decided.
Grief followed the Seven Cities priest up the walkway of beaten dirt. It ended at the edge of the dark cave, the open gaping mouth. Yath gestured within and backed away. Keeping a wary eye on the priest, Grief leant forward, cast a quick glance in and flinched back, stunned. ‘A throat!’ he called down. ‘They carved a throat!’
Ho, his eyes closed, nodded, almost despairing. Yes, a throat. And none of our sounding stones have yet to reach bottom. There is not enough rope in all the island to descend the innards of this statue. And so the mystery only confounds us further: as there is a throat, what of a stomach? Intestines? Ought one continue deeper into this route of inquiry? Perhaps not. What would a giant statue of jade eat? More reasonably, it would have no need for sustenance. Why then a throat?
‘And what do you hear?’ Yath urged, a hand clutched at his own throat, his eyes feverishly bright.
Grief cocked his head, crouched, silent for a time. Everyone below stilled as well. ‘I hear a breeze… sighing, or whispering… like the wind through a forest in the fall.’
‘He's a strong one,’ Su whispered to Ho. Edging her head sideways, she glanced up. ‘What did you hear?’
‘Screams of the insane. You?’
She dropped her head. ‘Inconsolable weeping.’
Yath now spread both his hands over the carved jade face, his long fingers splayed. He pressed the side of his own face to it, his mouth moving silently.
‘What in Oponn's name is the fool doing now?’ Ho murmured in wonder.
Sensing something, Grief peered up. ‘What?’ He shifted to the lip of the walkway, glanced down to them uncertainly. ‘I am amazed, I'll grant you that. And if we had-’
‘Wait,’ Yath interrupted, moving away from the opening.
Something drew Grief around. Ho felt it as well, in the stirring of his own thin hair, the pressing of the cloth of his shirt against his chest. A hiss of alarm escaped Su's lips.
Roaring burst from the mouth in a rushing torrent. Grief ducked but an explosion of air erupted from the mouth like the giant's own exhalation of breath. It plucked the man from the landing and threw him flying across the cavern. Everyone clapped hands to their heads as their ears popped. Several fell, screaming excruciating pain. A storm of dust roiled about the cavern blocking all vision, while above them Yath laughed and howled like a madman possessed.
As the dust settled Ho found the knot of inmates who had gathered around the fallen Malazan. He pushed his way through; Treat was there, kneeling at the side of his friend, who lay motionless.
‘Bring the next one!’ Yath ordered from the walkway, but no one listened. Everyone was shouting at him at once: when did he discover this capability? Why hadn't he shared his knowledge? How had he come to it? Was it conscious, or merely reflexive? What of the qualities of the air?
Ho stood silent, looking down at the dead man. The fellow had been difficult, brusque, highhanded even, but he had liked him. And none of them had even suspected what Yath had intended. That is, none except Su.
Treat raised a hand and slapped it hard across his dead friend's face. Inmates took hold of the man to pull him away, but Grief coughed, wincing, and covered his face with both hands. He groaned. ‘Hood take me, that hurt.’
Ho gaped – this was impossible! The man flew right over their heads! How… without magic… how? Treat pulled Grief upright and he stood swaying, brushed the dust from his leathers. He cupped his neck in both hands, twisted his head side to side. ‘Well, now that that's out of the way maybe we can get out of here.’
‘What!’ came a bellow of consternation from above.
The inmates flinched away leaving a broad empty circle around the three Malazans. Su burst out laughing her contempt. ‘Difficult to kill, these two.’ She cocked her head, addressed Grief. ‘Come recruiting?’
Grief examined her up and down. ‘Wickan? Definitely.’
Yath arrived, his eyes wild. ‘What is this? Still alive?’ He gestured to the spearmen. ‘What are you waiting for? They are obviously a threat! Kill them now.’
Treat snatched a spear from the nearest, levelled it against Yath. Sessin was suddenly there to slap his hands on the haft just short of the knapped stone point. The two men yanked back and forth, spear between them, sandalled feet shifting in the dry dirt. ‘Stop this now!’ Ho shouted. Yath waved everyone back. The tug of war continued, Sessin grinning, his back hunched, Treat's mouth tight, eyes gauging. They strained, motionless, as if engaged in a pantomime of effort, until with an explosive report the spear burst in half between them. Each staggered backwards.
Yath raised a hand, shouted something in the Seven Cities dialect. He addressed Grief: ‘Who are you?’
‘An ally.’ Grief raised his voice to address everyone. ‘We've come to bring you all back to Quon to fight the Empire. What say you? Revenge against those who imprisoned you?’
Yath stared, eyes bulging, then he laughed his madman's laugh. ‘You idiot! What use can any of these old men and women be? What of the Otataral?’
Grief shrugged. ‘The Pit has long since been mined out. It's just a prison now. The little ore that remains that you have been digging out contains the barest trace element. And that raw, unrefined. It can be cleaned off.’
‘It's in the food!’ someone called out.
Again the shrug. ‘A change of diet. It will pass.’
Yath smoothed his beard, thinking. ‘If its presence is as mild as you say – then why can none of us draw upon the Warrens? Why is all theurgy closed to us?’
‘Proximity. It's our location here on the island. Once we get away it will come back.’
‘But we've been breathing it in!’ a voice objected.
‘There are many alchemical treatments, expectorants.’
‘That's true,’ someone said. ‘D'bayang powder inhaled with sufficient force can-’
‘Will you shut up!’ Yath snarled. He clasped his staff in both hands across his middle. ‘Believe me, Mezla, I want revenge upon your Empire more than you can possibly imagine. But we are down here in this – prison – as you name it and I do not see how you propose to get us out!’
Grief was rubbing and rolling a shoulder, grimacing. ‘Fair enough.’ He glanced around. ‘What time of day is it above?’
‘Before dawn,’ someone answered, nods all around.
‘OK. Let's go up to the mine-head and we'll have you lot out by dawn.’
Yath sneered. ‘Lies! Once there you'll call for the guards to rescue you.’
‘So stick us with your spears.’
Yath subsided, glowering, his mouth working. Su laughed her scorn. The two headed to the tunnel; everyone moved from their path.
Ho brought up the rear, waiting for Su. Once the rest of the inmates were sufficiently ahead he asked, ‘So, who are they then?’
The witch cast him a creamy self-satisfied look. ‘Have you not guessed by now?’
‘No. So, they're not Malazan.’
Her stick lashed him across his shin and he danced away, wincing. ‘Please! Of course they are Malazan. But then there are Malazans and then there are Malazans.’
‘I don't understand.’
‘Obviously.’
They walked along in silence for a time. ‘So they're with this secessionist movement we've been hearing of.’
Su waved him away like an annoying insect and headed off. At the long ascending tunnel he waited while she caught her breath. ‘I am old,’ she said suddenly. ‘Strange how those of us who have benefited from manipulating the Warrens, or by ritual, to linger on – continue to do so here in the mines?’ Ho did not answer; what was there to say? That it was a mystery? For a time I feared I would spend eternity here. Or until the wind eroded the island down around me and I could simply walk away. Do you have no such fears?’
Ho shook his head. ‘I've never thought about it.’
She studied him keenly once more, frowning. ‘You have no imagination, Ho. In fact, you lack many things that would make a man whole.’
‘Is that an insult?’
‘A temper, for example. I don't recall ever seeing you angry. Where did your temper walk off to, magus? Your ambition? Your drive?’
‘That subject's closed, Su,’ he growled and headed off.
He waited for her where the sloping tunnel met the side gallery. From here they walked along side by side, though quiet. They met no one. Coming to the main gallery they found this deserted as well. Ho wondered if Grief and Treat had already whisked everyone off – perhaps they'd dug a tunnel climbing all the way to the surface, with toothpicks.
The murmur of many voices, however, reached them from the round mine-head. A milling mass of what appeared to be the entire Pit's population, all talking, mixing, exchanging opinions and rumours. Ho caught the eye of the nearest. ‘What's going on?’
‘Two of the newcomers climbed the wall.’
Ho's brows rose. ‘Really.’ Just as they'd said. ‘But everyone's tried that.’
A helpless wave. ‘Apparently one had two short sticks that he jabbed into the wall, climbing like that, one then the other. The second followed along his path, punching and kicking the holes deeper.’ Ho thought of the short batons he'd seen Grief whittling. So not weapons after all.
‘Since then?’ Su asked.
‘Nothing. Silence. Yath says they've run off.’
‘He would say that.’ There was something pathological about that man's hatred. If they did get out he'd have to keep an eye on him. Who knew what he might try; he'd already attempted murder.
Grating and ratcheting above announced the hanging platform moving. All talking stopped. A number of inmates fled the mine-head, perhaps afraid it was the guards on their way to bash heads. Ho thought it possible, but unlikely. Why come down here to dirty their hands when they could just withhold food?
As the platform descended it became obvious that it held only one occupant, Grief. After it touched down, rather clumsily, he unclipped a safety rope and waved an invitation. ‘Five at a time, please.’
No one spoke, or moved. Faces turned to examine one another in wonderment as if searching for some clue as to what next to do. Grief frowned his disappointment. ‘Well, aren't you all an eager lot. Don't trample anyone.’
Taking a steadying breath, Ho stepped forward. ‘What happened up there, Grief?’
‘C'mon up. Take a look around.’
‘I'll come,’ said a female inmate, stepping up. Ho recognized her as another of the latest newcomers who had arrived with Grief and Treat. Three other inmates joined them. On the platform, Ho asked the woman, ‘You know each other?’
She looked Grief up and down. ‘No.’
Grief pulled a cord strung among the fat hemp rope suspending the platform and shortly afterwards the mechanism jerked upwards, climbing. Ho saw that two mismatched swords now hung at the man's belt.
The grey, yellow and gold sedimentary layers of the excavated rock edged past as they rose. The rope creaked alarmingly. Ho glanced down, thinking, how many decades kicking through that dust? Six? Seven? Had he simply lost count? Somehow the future now alarmed him. What would he do? Where would he go? He'd gone too long now without even having to consider such questions. He eyed Grief; not a mark on the man and how many guards? Twenty-five, or thereabouts. How had the two accomplished this? All without any Warren magics either. The achievement irked Ho in a way – he felt as if he'd been rendered obsolete. What need for mages if they can manage this?
The platform bumped to a stop, swinging. With a screeching of wood on wood, the cantilevered solid tree-trunk supporting them began turning aside, carrying the platform over to rest on the dirt beside the opening. Grief unhitched the safety rope. Ho blinked in the unaccustomed dawn light, shaded his eyes. The Pit's infrastructure had not changed much since he'd last seen it. A long clapboard house looking like a guard barracks stood where, when Ho had been processed, had only been a tent. A lean-to blacksmith's shop, a corral for donkeys, a dusty heap of open piled barrels and a squat officer's house completed the penal station. Broken barrels and rusted pieces of metal littered the landscape. Beyond, dunes tufted by brittle grasses led off in all directions. Curtains of wind-blown dust obscured the distances. Treat was busy watering the four donkeys hooked to the spokes of the broad, circular lifting mechanism. ‘Where is everyone?’
Grief raised his chin to the barracks. ‘Inside.’
Ho wet his lips, forced himself to ask, ‘Alive?’
‘See for yourself.’
Ho decided that, yes, he would. But he could not bring himself to step from the platform. The others had walked off immediately. He looked down, edged a sandalled foot forward, brought it down on the surface, shifted some weight on to it, bounced slightly up and down as if testing its soundness. Only after this could he bring his other foot from the wood slats.
Grief watched all this without comment, his lips pursed. ‘I'm sorry,’ he finally said as they walked along to the barracks.
‘For what?’
‘I hadn't thought about just how hard this might be for some of you.’
‘For most of us, I think you'll find.’ Then Ho stopped. Something had been bothering him about the installation. He glanced around again, thinking. ‘Where are the wagons? Where's the track to the coast to deliver the ore?’ He pointed to the haphazardly piled barrels. ‘Those are empty. Where are all the full ones?’
Grief was looking away, squinting into the distance, the wrinkles around his eyes almost hiding them. ‘I'm sorry.’
‘Sorry? You're sorry? What do you mean, Hood take you!’
‘He means they've been dumping them,’ said the woman. Ho spun; she'd followed along.
‘Dumping them? They dump them!’ Ho raised his dirty, broken-nailed hands to Grief. ‘Seventy years of scraping and gouging – halved rations when we missed our quotas – and they… they just…’ Ho lurched off for the barracks.
Grief hurried to catch up. ‘Not at first, I understand. Only the last few, ah, decades. It was all played out, not worth refining. I'm sorry, Ho.’
The door wouldn't open. When Ho turned his shoulder to it as if he would batter it down, Grief stepped in front, pulled out two wedges. Ho pushed it open. He found the guards on the floor, lying down and sitting. Seeing Ho, those who could, stood. Seeing Grief they flinched. Almost all carried bloody head wounds, bruising blossoming deep black and purple. Ho thought again of the short batons Grief had whittled. So, yes, weapons after all. ‘Who is the senior officer?’
A short, broad fellow with a blond beard stood forward. He straightened his linen shirt. ‘I am Captain Galith. Who in the Abyss are you?’
‘Am I to understand that you have been dumping the ore that we have been sending up?’
A smile of understanding crept up the man's mouth. ‘Yes, it was policy when I arrived five years ago. We tested each delivery and dumped anything below refinable traces.’
Ho ran a hand through his short hair and found drops of sweat running down his temples. ‘And tell me when… how often were these standards met?’
The smile turned down into mocking defiance. ‘Never.’
Ho grasped a handful of the man's shirt. ‘Come with me.’ He walked the man out towards the gaping ledge.
Grief followed along. ‘What are you going to do, Ho? Toss him in? I can't allow that.’
‘You can't-’ Ho stopped, faced the short, muscular Napan. ‘Who do you think you are? You hang around for a few months and you know everything? This goes way back.’
‘These men surrendered to me. Not you. They're under my protection.’
Facing the Malazan officer, Ho took a deep steadying breath then forced his fist open; Captain Galith pulled his bunched shirt free. ‘You didn't have the guts anyway,’ he grated.
Ho swung a backhanded slap that caught the man across the side of his head, sending him off his feet to lie motionless. Grief leapt backwards clasping the grip of one sword. ‘How did you do that!’ he demanded, eyes slitted.
‘How did you have Treat defeat some twenty guards?’
Grief straightened, inclining his head in acknowledgement of the point. He smiled in a wicked humour. ‘We surprised them.’
‘If you two have finished your pissing contest then perhaps we can discuss how we're getting off this island?’
Grief and Ho turned to the dumpy, grey-haired female inmate. ‘Listen,’ Ho said impatiently, ‘what in the Lady's Favour is your name anyway?’
She crossed her thick arms across her wide chest. ‘Devaleth Omptol.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘It wouldn't mean anything to you.’
Ho rolled his eyes. ‘Gods, woman, there are over forty scholars, historians and archivists here.’
‘Mare. Ship's mage, out of Black City.’
‘You're from Fist, then.’
The woman's brows rose, surprised. ‘Yes. That name's not in common usage.’
Grief took the feet of the unconscious captain, began dragging him back to the barracks. ‘Ship's mage, hey? That'll be damned useful.’
‘If either of you think I'm going to summon my Warren with all this Otataral around you're the insane ones.’ She shouted after Grief, ‘How are we getting off this blasted island anyway?’
‘Treat's going to get the rest of our, ah, team, tonight. We have a ship.’
Devaleth snorted something that sounded like ‘Fine!’ and walked away.
‘Where are you going?’ Ho called after her.
She pointed to the dunes. ‘There's an ocean out there. I'm going to wash my clothes, scrub my skin with sand, scrub my hair, and then I'm going to do it all over again!’
Ho plucked at his threadbare, dirty jerkin, lifted a foot in its worn leather sandal. All impregnated with the ore. He looked to the barracks, his eyes widening, and he ran after Grief. ‘Wait a moment!’
Ghelel wanted to curry her own mount. It was an eager mare she'd grown quite fond of, but Molk had warned against it saying that the regulars took care of such things and that she, as a Prevost, ought not to lower herself. She personally saw nothing odd in an officer caring for his or her own horse; Molk, however, was insistent. And so she found herself facing another empty evening of waiting – waiting for intelligence from Li Heng on any development in the siege, which appeared to have settled into a sullen stalemate despite the early victories. Or waiting for intelligence from the east on the progress of the Empress's armada. Or of a new development: the coastal raids of a significant pirate navy that had coalesced to take advantage of the chaos, pillaging Unta and now Cawn. Just two days ago word reached them that these raiders had become so emboldened they were actually marching inland. The betting around the tents was on how far they dared go. Raids on Telo or Ipras were the odds-on favourites.
She therefore faced the same choice that wasn't really a choice this last week since General Urko's army had marched through: lie staring at the roof of her tent, sitting at the main campfire or visiting the command tent. Spending another useless evening at the campfire meant watching the Falaran cavalrymen led by their fat captain, Tonley, share barbs and boasts with the Seti while swilling enormous quantities of whatever alcohol his men had most recently ‘liberated’. Most often beer, though the occasional cask of distilled spirits appeared, and even skins of mead. Visiting the command tent meant, well, getting even closer to Commander Ullen. Something she found frighteningly easy to do.
What would the Marquis think? Or Choss? Would they approve? Ghelel pulled her gloves tighter against the chill night air, glanced to the east where the land fell away into the Idryn's flat, rich floodplain. Somewhere there just days away marched a ragged horde of pirate raiders. Idly, she wondered why Ullen didn't simply uproot his rearguard battalion together with the Falaran lancers, the Seti scouts and the Marshland cavalry and wipe the brigands from the face of the continent. Well, damn them anyway; they maintained she was the heir of the Talian Hegemony, the Tali of Quon Tali. Therefore she outranked the Marquis and Choss wasn't here. She headed to the command tent.
Reaching a main alley in the encampment, she saw ahead the torches and the posted guards, Malazan regulars of the Falaran brigades, and she slowed. If the League should win the coming confrontation and she were installed as the Tali of Quon Tali… how would her behaviour here now come to reflect upon her in the eyes of these regulars everywhere? The thought of their mockery burned upon her face.
The eyes of those guards had her now, glittering in the dark beneath their helmets, and she forced herself to keep moving. Well, damn them too; right now she was nothing more than a lowly cavalry captain, a Prevost. Lowly, and lonely.
As she approached, the guards inclined their heads in acknowledgement and one pushed aside the flap. Ghelel gave as courteous a response as she dared and ducked within. It was warm inside. The golden light of lanterns lit a cluttered table, a scattering of chairs and a low table littered with fruit, meats and carafes of wine. Commander Ullen straightened from pouring wine at the table and bowed. The Marquis Jhardin straightened and bowed as well, though more slowly and perfunctorily – a mere observance of aristocratic courtesy. For her part, Ghelel saluted two superior officers.
Ullen waved the salute aside. ‘Please, Alil. How many times must I ask?’
‘Every time, sir.’ Ghelel drew off her gloves and cloak, draped them over a chair.
‘We were just talking of this pirate army,’ the Marquis said, easing himself back down. ‘They say that at Unta they must have tried to rob the Imperial Arsenal. Blew up half the city and themselves for their trouble.’
‘There's enough of them left,’ Ullen growled into his cup, and sat, stretching out his legs. Ghelel liked the way he did that; and liked the way he watched her from the corner of his pale-blue eyes, almost shyly. She sat at the table, picked up a carafe. ‘I quite understand why we aren't swatting them. I mean, since they number so many…’
A smile from Ullen. One that held no mockery at all, only a bright amusement shared by his eyes. ‘How gigantic have they become now?’
‘I overheard one trooper swear them to be at least thirty thousand.’
The Marquis whistled. ‘Prodigious multiplying indeed. Forget them, Alil. They're just a mob of looters. We don't care about the vultures. We've come for a lioness.’
But Ullen frowned, the lines of care around his mouth deepening. Ghelel caught his eye, arched a questioning brow. ‘We aren't ignoring them, Alil. I have Seti scouts watching from a distance. There have been some rather disturbing, admittedly contrary, rumours about them. But they are – how shall I put it? Difficult to credit. And our mage with Urko, Bala, has sent the message that she is troubled. She suspects powerful mages shielding themselves from her questings.’
‘There must be one or two forceful personalities keeping the horde together,’ the Marquis opined. ‘We'll spot them and eliminate them and the mob will evaporate. They should not have come inland – they are obviously overconfident.’
‘Was Kellanved overconfident?’ Ullen mused aloud, eyeing his glass, ‘when he marched inland with his pirate raiders from Malaz? And Heng was one of his first conquests.’
Neither the Marquis nor Ghelel spoke for a time. The Marquis inclined his head to concede the point. ‘I suppose you could say he was the exception that proves the rule.’
Ghelel studied her wine glass. ‘Speaking of the Throne… why don't we go to meet her? Excuse me for asking, but as new to the command – could we not stop her in the narrow plains west of Cawn?’
Another smile from Ullen. ‘True.’ He stretched, ran both hands through his short blond hair. ‘But then she would simply withdraw to Cawn and wait for us. That we cannot have. As an advocate would say, the burden of proof lies with us. We have to beat her; she merely has to stand back and wait for our support to erode.’
For all Ghelel knew Ullen was patronizing her just as Choss and Amaron had, only his manners were smoother. But there was nothing in it that felt that way to her; they were merely talking through the options together and he was giving the benefit of his greater experience. She wondered again just how much the man knew of her, how much Urko or the Marquis had told him. It could mean a great deal to know that. ‘Why should our support be eroding – not hers?’
‘Because if we can't take Heng, how can we take anything?’
Ghelel pursed her lips at the truth of that sobering evaluation. Indeed. Why should any of the League's supporters stay with them if they should fail here? They would face wholesale desertions. A return to independent kingdoms with the old war of all against all not far behind. Continent-wide strife, the inevitable dissolution into chaos with starvation, brutality and petty warlordism. Something Ghelel would do anything to avoid.
The Marquis drained his glass and stood. ‘If the Empress commits to the field then Heng can hang itself.’ He saluted Ullen: ‘Commander.’ Bowed to Ghelel: ‘Prevost. I will leave you two to sort out the rest of the problems facing our army and will expect appropriate orders tomorrow. Good night.’
Laughing, Ullen waved the Marquis out. When the heavy canvas flap closed Ghelel faced Ullen alone. For a time neither spoke. Ghelel poured herself another glass of wine. ‘Did the Marquis tell you I am new to his command?’
Ullen nodded. ‘Yes… Your family goes back quite far in Tali?’
Ghelel felt her face reddening and damned the reaction. To cover it, she shrugged. ‘Rich in ancestry, poor in cash. Yourself?’
An edge of his mouth crooked up. ‘Like you. Rich in experience, poor in cash. I have served in the military all my life.’
‘Then you have been overseas? Genabackis? Seven Cities?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’ A mischievous smile. ‘Unless Falar counts?’
She answered his smile. ‘Oh, I suppose we could allow that – just for this one night.’
Ullen raised his glass. ‘My thanks. Now I possess a more soldierly exotic flair.’
But Ghelel was troubled. The man looked to be in his late forties, yet had never served overseas. Where had he been all these years?
Had he seen only garrison duty for the last twenty years? Yet Urko seemed to have every confidence in him; could he be nothing more than a competent manager, more clerk than soldier?
A knock at the front post. ‘Yes?’ Ullen called.
A guard edged aside the thick canvas. ‘Seti scout here, sir, with word from the raiders.’
Sighing, Ullen pushed himself to his feet, crossed to the work table. ‘Send him in, sergeant.’
A slight wisp of a figure slipped through the opening and Ghelel stared. A child! What had they come to, sending children into the field? The girl-child's deerskin trousers were torn and muddied, her moccasins worn through. A sleeveless leather jerkin was all else she wore despite the bitter cold night. Her long hair hung in a tangle of sweat, knots and lengths of leather and beads, and a sheathed long-knife hung from a rope tied round one shoulder. Despite her bedraggled and hard-travelled appearance the girl-child surveyed the contents of the tent with the scorn of a princess.
‘Ullar yesh ‘ap?’ she addressed Ullen in obvious disapproval.
‘Aya,’ he replied easily in Seti. ‘Tahian heshar?’
‘Nyeh.’
Ullen looked to Ghelel. ‘Excuse us, please.’ To the girl-child, ‘Bergar, sho.’
The child launched into a long report in Seti. When she gestured Ghelel was wrenched to see that her fingertips were blue with cold, as were her lips. Gods! This child was half-frozen with exposure from riding through the night. The Seti youth tossed a fold of torn cloth on to Ullen's table and turned to go. Ghelel intervened, ‘Wait! Please!’
A hand went to the grip of the long-knife and the girl glared an accusation at Ullen. ‘What is it?’ he asked of Ghelel.
‘Ask her to stay. To warm herself – anything.’
He spoke to her and the tone of the girl's reply told Ghelel all she needed to know. She offered her own cloak. ‘She can take this.’
Ullen translated; the girl responded, shooting Ghelel a glare of ferocious pride that would be humorous if it were not so obviously heartfelt. Ullen translated, ‘She thanks you but says she would only be burdened by such a possession.’
Ghelel squeezed the thick rich cloth in both hands. ‘Then will she not stay?’
‘No. I'm sure she means to return immediately to her scouting party.’
‘She'll die of exposure! Can't you order her to stay until tomorrow?’
Ullen passed a hand through his hair, sighing. ‘Alil… her party probably consists of her own brothers, sisters and cousins.’
Ghelel leant her weight into the chair, let the cloak fall over its back. ‘I… see. Tell her… tell her, I'm sorry.’
In answer the girl reached out a hand to cover Ghelel's who hissed, shocked, so cold was the girl's grip. She left then, and Ghelel could not raise her head to watch her go.
After some moments Ullen cleared his throat and came around the table. He squeezed Ghelel's arm. ‘Your concern does you credit, Alil. But it is misplaced. She was born to this. Grew up with it, and is used to it.’
Ghelel flinched away, shocked by the man's words. ‘So they are less than us, are they? Coarser? They feel less than we do?’
Ullen's face froze. He dropped his arm. ‘That is not what I meant at all.’ He returned to the table, picked up the scrap of cloth the messenger had left. ‘Ehra – that's her name by the way. Named for a tiny blue flower you can find everywhere here – she reports that her party captured a runaway from the raiders. And since they're under my orders to find out what they can about these pirates, they questioned him. The fellow claimed the sigil they wear is important.’ Ullen waved the fold of cloth. ‘He sketched it here.’
Sitting heavily, Ghelel poured herself another glass of wine. ‘Commander… I'm sorry. I forgot myself. No doubt you meant that she was used to such privation; that she's grown up riding in such weather all year round. You are no doubt right. I'm sorry. It's just that we Talians border on the Seti. There is a long history of antagonism and I have grown up hearing much that is… how shall I put it – bigoted – against them. You have my apology, commander.’ Hearing nothing from him, she glanced up, ‘Commander?’
Ullen had backed away from the table. His gaze was fixed upon the opened cloth. He appeared to have had a vision of Hood himself; his face was sickly pale from shock. His hands had fisted white. Ghelel threw aside her glass and came to his side. ‘What is it?’
‘Gods no… it's true,’ he breathed.
She picked up the scrap. Sketched in charcoal and ochre dust was a long rust smear bearing a weaving undulating line. ‘What is it?’
Ullen swallowed, wiped a hand across his glistening brow. ‘Something I prayed I'd never see again. Sergeant!’
The guard stepped in. ‘Sir?’
‘Summon the Marquis and Captain Tonley, quickly.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Ullen went to the low table and poured himself a glass of wine.
‘What is it?’ Ghelel asked again.
Downing the drink, Ullen said, ‘It means nothing to you? A red field, a long sinuous beast – a dragon perhaps?’
‘No.’
He spoke into the depths of his empty glass. ‘How quickly so much is forgotten.’
The Marquis threw open the tent flap; he wore only an open felt shirt, trousers and boots. ‘What news?’
Ullen nodded to Ghelel, who held out the torn strip. The Marquis took it. ‘Surely you are versed in liveries, Marquis. What do you make of that insignia?’
‘A red field, a long beast or perhaps a weapon – it could be any number of things.’
‘And if the thing were a dragon?’
‘What would that mean?’ Ghelel asked.
‘Then-’ Snorting, he tossed the cloth to the table. ‘Imposture, surely. An empty boast.’
‘I think not. This confirms rumours out of Unta.’
‘What rumours?’ Ghelel asked more loudly.
‘You cannot be certain though,’ said the Marquis.
‘No, but certain enough to treat them more warily. I ask that you return to your command south of the Idryn.’
‘Agreed.’
Captain Tonley pushed aside the canvas flap. Wincing, he shielded his eyes from the bright lantern light. ‘What is it – ah, sirs?’
‘Yes!’ Ghelel added. ‘What is it, damn it to Hood!’
‘The sigil of the Crimson Guard,’ Ullen said.
Ghelel stared, her brows rising. The Crimson Guard? That hoary old-woman's bogeyman? Mere mercenaries? Was this what so unnerved Ullen? Only her tact stopped her from laughing out loud.
Captain Tonley scratched his auburn beard. His face betrayed an utter lack of recognition. ‘The Crimson Guard, you say? That so, sir? Amazing.’ He took a great deep breath, noticed the carafes of wine and scooped one up. ‘Orders, sir?’
Ullen either didn't notice or was inured to the man's manners – or lack thereof. ‘Send your best rider to Urko at Command.’ He scratched a message on a scrap of vellum, handed it to Tonley. ‘The invading army confirmed as Crimson Guard.’
‘Anyone could use that symbol,’ Ghelel objected.
‘No one would dare,’ the Marquis answered. ‘Come, Prevost. We leave immediately.’ He bowed to Ullen. Ghelel did not move. She watched Ullen who bowed his farewell to her while, she thought, keeping his face carefully empty of emotion. The Marquis took her arm. ‘Prevost.’
Outside, the Marquis said low, ‘Change quickly, we ride within the hour,’ and he was off to his tent. Feeling somehow drunk, stunned by these quick developments, Ghelel walked slowly away. Inside her tent, she found Molk lying across the entrance, an arm over his face. ‘Get up. We're going.’
He moved his arm to blink up at her. ‘Going? So soon?’
‘Yes. And hurry – you have to pack.’ She began changing to dress in her armour.
He sat up quickly. ‘What's the news? Is it her?’
Pulling off her shirt, Ghelel paused. Her? Oh, yes, her, ‘No. Not her.’
‘Who then?’
A laugh from Ghelel. ‘Yes, who indeed.’ She shook out a silk undershirt, pulled it on. ‘Apparently our glorious commander believes these raiders are the Crimson Guard returned. Can you believe that?’ She straightened the front lacings, looked up. ‘Molk?’
She turned full circle, peering around the tent. The fool had disappeared. Well, damn the man. Now who was going to pack?
It was not until the column started off south for the Pilgrim road that Ghelel had an opportunity to speak in relative privacy with the Marquis. Side by side just behind the column's van riding with lit torches, she leaned to him. ‘So you believe him then? That this is the Guard, returned?’
Helmet under an arm and reins in one hand, the Marquis turned to examine her. His eyes were dark pits in the night and his black curly hair blew unbounded about his face. ‘I believe Ullen,’ he called back.
‘Why should Ullen be so certain? And why so fearful? They are only mercenaries. Famous, yes. But just a band of hireswords.’
The Marquis's mouth straightened in a cold humourless smile. ‘Have you not heard the stories then?’
Ghelel thought of the bedtime tales her nanny had told of the Guard and how they opposed the emperor. Romantic heroics of great champions and fanciful unbelievable deeds. ‘I've heard them. Troubadours’ tales and romances. But that was all long ago. Why should Ullen fear them now?’
It was now the Marquis's turn to look confused. ‘Do you not know who he is, was?’
Ghelel stared, taken aback, then cut off a snarled reply. She pulled her mount closer to the Marquis. ‘How in the Queen's own Mysteries am I to know anything if no one tells me anything!’
The Marquis raised a hand in surrender. ‘Apologies. I thought you knew. The man served on Dassem's staff! Was Choss's adjutant for a time. That's why I believe him.’
Astonished, Ghelel relaxed and fell behind the Marquis. Ranks of her cavalry thundered past while her mount slowed. Served with Dassem! Served all his life yet had never left the continent – the man had fought during the wars of consolidation! Damn the fellow! She was half tempted to turn her horse around and confront him. Why didn't he just out and say so? Yet why should he have to? Why shouldn't she have faith in him regardless? Urko chose him for a reason, didn't he? Didn't she accept his competence unquestioned?
She slowed her mount to a canter, gazed back to the encampment, a distant glow in the clear starry night. Her and her mount's breath steamed in the frigid air and Ghelel thought of a bony Seti girl riding east dressed far more poorly than she. Ahead, four of her cavalry had held back from the column, awaiting her. Idly, she wondered where Molk had got himself off to and whether she'd ever see the man again. The stars blazed down with a hard cold light from horizon to horizon and suddenly new ones appeared in the east. Ghelel squinted, surprised. No, not stars, yellow flickering lights, torches. A handful appearing and disappearing in the dark above the horizon where…
Gods turn from her! Ghelel raked her spurs, leaning high and forward. Ride! ‘Haugh!’ She dashed between her startled guard, racing for the column. When she reached the van, the Marquis took one glance at her face and raised an arm in the halt.
His mount rearing, he called, ‘What is it?’
Also struggling to control her own mount, she pointed, ‘Look! Lights! It must be them. They're taking the ruins of the monastery.’
The Marquis studied the east. His mouth twisted his disgust. ‘Trake take us, we'll never lever them out of there! It's a rat warren.’ Then he stared at Ghelel as if seeing her for the first time, his eyes widened, and he yanked on his helmet, securing the strap one-handed. ‘Outriders! Form up! We ride for the bridge!’
A guard of the cavalry formed around Ghelel and the Marquis. Scouts stormed ahead. The Marquis signalled the advance. The column gathered speed to a gallop into absolute darkness.