Nok raised his glass. ‘One mystery at a time then.’
Greymane answered the salute. ‘Yes. A slow fighting retreat, yes? Give us all the time you can, Admiral.’
The old man smoothed his white moustache, grinning. His eyes, deep in their nest of wrinkles, flashed an almost fey anticipation. He extended a hand. ‘Until we meet again on the west coast.’
Laughing, Greymane took the hand as hard and dry as wood. ‘Until then, Admiral.’
*
A shake of his foot woke Suth. The hold was almost completely black.
‘Collect your kit,’ Goss’s voice whispered from the dark. ‘We’re shipping out.’
Suth grunted his acknowledgement. He swung from his hammock, began pulling his gear together. Around him the 17th stirred to life.
He’d been thrown around below and so he knew what to expect when he climbed up on to the deck. Tall waves crashed into the Lasana, sending a biting spray across his face. Beside him a sailor was ordering a coil of rope. ‘There would be a storm, wouldn’t there?’ he said to the fellow.
The sailor looked up. He was chewing a great wad of something that he spat out. He glanced around at the low slate-grey clouds, the heaving rough seas. ‘Call this a storm?’
Smart arse. The 20th was gathered at the port rail. Suth carefully edged his way over. Next to the tall Lasana a small launch was struggling to come alongside. The waves alternately threw it up then dropped it suddenly and the waters threatened to suck it under the Lasana’s hull. On board, Blue marines used poles to fend it away from the giant transport. Sailors from the Lasana threw down rope ladders. ‘After you!’ one shouted gaily to the gathered heavies, laughing.
A trooper sent the man an evil eye.
‘Hey, Yana!’ a woman from the 20th yelled: Coral, its sergeant. Suth glanced back to see Yana running up. ‘This is stupid! We want a cradle.’
‘What’s the hold-up?’ Yana asked, her eyes puffy with sleep.
‘Ha! Very funny. We should have a cradle for this.’
‘Fuck, I hate all this fucking water,’ someone said next to Suth. Surprised, he glanced down to see Faro. Though the small man wore heeled boots, he barely came up to Suth’s shoulder. He held his pipe in his teeth, unlit, and wore a loose dark jacket over a vest and shirt. ‘Let’s get going,’ he said mostly to himself, set both gloved hands on the rail, and promptly vaulted over.
A horrified shout went up from everyone crowding the rail. Suth threw himself forward to peer down. The man was hanging from a rope ladder, being knocked about, swinging wildly.
‘Who in Hood’s name is that?’ someone said.
‘One of Goss’ boys.’
‘His pet knife.’
‘Get hisself killed.’
The Blue marines allowed the launch to lurch closer. Faro let go and flew, landing and rolling in the broad belly of the launch.
‘Blast it!’ Coral snarled. ‘Bring rope! Tie your gear to ropes.’
One by one the squads lowered bundled gear until the wide belly of the launch was fairly covered. Then they descended by rope ladder. By the end, the launch was riding insanely low in the rough seas. The Blues pushed off and set long sweeps. They gestured that everyone should lend a hand. Some thirty men and women scrambled to help, displaying more eagerness than they had the entire journey.
They crossed to a Blue vessel waiting nearby. Troopers were climbing netting hung at its sides while launches bobbed like insects and empty ones were being raised. Despite his fear of either drowning or being dashed to pieces, Suth was curious to see the inside of one of these ships. Eventually their turn came, but not soon enough for some of the men and women, who had thrown themselves to the sides, heaving up their guts.
Suth waited in line for the dangerous task of climbing the netting. When he finally pulled himself up on to the decking he lay soaked and exhausted. Their gear followed, heaved up on ropes. They collected their kits then were directed below decks to quarters. Rain lashed down now, as cold as ice. A Blue marine directed them to the companionway. On the way Len, next to Suth, touched his shoulder then brought a finger to his eye, glancing aside. Suth followed the man’s gaze to where a soldier leaned against the side, arms crossed. He was a young fellow, broad with a long moustache, in a sheepskin jacket under thick cloaks.
‘The Adjunct,’ Len murmured. It was the first Suth had seen of him. ‘Some say he’s Greymane’s hatchet-man.’ Suth merely grunted, knowing nothing of him. ‘Maybe he’ll lead the landing.’
‘Or maybe he’s here to execute anyone who holds back,’ said Pyke, who’d come abreast of them.
‘Then I guess that would be you,’ said Len, aside.
Suth laughed out loud as they took the stairs.
* * *
Like a curtain of night a dust storm hung in the distance, cutting the horizon in half. It was, Kiska finally decided, strangely beautiful in its own stark way. She had no idea how much time she’d spent watching the front’s grave, stately advance across the far plain. An afternoon? A day? Two days? Who was to know here in Shadow? Or were these even the right questions to ask?
Her companion in their unofficial captivity lay curled up asleep, or at least pretending. He was good at both: relaxing and pretending. She saw him as a natural hunter, with that ability to wait indefinitely for prey to wander by, while the pretending part was all the camouflage necessary. Indeed, so far he had learned much more about her than the reverse.
And on that note … Kiska turned from the narrow gap, adjusted her sore back on the jagged rock seating. She cleared her throat. ‘So … you fought against the invasion, then …’
Jheval grunted the affirmative, stretched.
The man is like a cat.
Blinking, he gave her a questioning look.
‘Did you face the Imass?’
‘Am I dead?’
‘Sorry. Silly question. Did you—’
The man had raised a hand for silence. He rubbed his face, yawning. ‘No, an understandable question. Your Imass hold such a grip on your Malazan imagination. There was only Aren, really.’
Kiska understood. It was shortly after the massacre at Aren that the dreaded undead army of Imass abandoned Imperial service to march off into the deserts west of the Seven Cities region. Everyone assumed it had to do with the transition from Kellanved, the Emperor, to Laseen, his successor. ‘But you fought …’
‘Oh, yes. I fought against you invaders.’ Jheval gestured vaguely, agreeing. ‘I was young, foolish. I thought I was so fast and skilled and smart that nothing could touch me.’
He stopped there, staring off at the rock wall; perhaps reliving old memories. ‘And?’ Kiska prompted after a time.
A shrug. ‘War taught me otherwise.’
‘You ran into someone smarter and more skilled than you?’
He looked to her, quite startled. ‘Oh no. I haven’t met anyone smarter or more skilled than I.’
Ye gods! Queen deliver me from this man’s overweening vanity! ‘So what did happen, then?’ she asked, rather drily.
‘I saw that such qualities were mostly irrelevant in war. Chance. It all just comes down to dumb chance. Whether you live or die. Chance. The tossed siege boulder crushing the man next to you. The arrow shot high into the sky coming down through your shoulder armour without breaking your skin. The half-strength patrol running into a party even smaller than it.’ Jheval made a wave through the air as if tossing something away. ‘So it goes. Some fall, some are spared. But not for any good reason.’
Such a cold and futile view of life made Kiska shudder. ‘Surely the gods decide …’
‘… who lives and who dies?’ Jheval canted his head, looking pensive. ‘We are trapped here, so it would be best not to argue … But from what I have seen the gods do not decide anything. Oh, certainly they intervene occasionally, when it suits their purposes, but otherwise I think they are as bound by happenstance as we. And you know what?’ He looked to her, knitted his fingers across his waist. ‘
I find that endlessly reassuring.’
Kiska decided that she did not understand, nor possibly like, this man at all. Something in his words – the ideas behind them – instilled a nameless panic in her chest. Now she felt trapped, while all this time the possibility hadn’t really been a worry. She knew she had to act; she had to do something or be driven insane. She climbed to her feet, crouched over double in their cramped cave. ‘Time to test the waters … don’t you think?’
Jheval was surprised once again, his brows rising. ‘Really? I was only joking, you know. About taking turns. I’ll go.’
‘No. You’re right. We should share the risk. What weapon, do you think?’
‘What weapon?’ He laughed. ‘One of your Malazan Moranth munitions, I should think.’
Kiska held out her empty hands. ‘Barring one of those. A stave, I think, to hold them off.’
‘You’ve already gone mad if you think you could hold one of them off.’
Kiska began pulling lengths of blackened metal pipe from slim pockets in her cloak and at her belt and vest. She spoke while she worked: ‘I’ve seen them before, you know. These hounds. They’re strong, but they have their limitations.’ The sections screwed together and latched, locking.
Jheval watched closely without saying a thing. Finally, he cleared his throat. ‘Their limitations, I think, have nothing to do with us poor mortals. And that toy … it’s of no use. Let me go.’
‘This toy is as strong as, if not stronger than, any staff. It was custom built for me by the Moranth.’
‘I’m sure the hounds will pause to admire it.’
Kiska gave what she hoped was a carefree smile. ‘We shall see.’ And she edged out of the crack. She heard behind her a stifled call and was relieved. Good. At least he knew enough not to shout. Straightening to a fighting stance, she peered about, listened, and then sensed outwards with an awareness now long attuned to these surroundings. The bare rocky slope appeared empty, as did the sandy hillsides to either flank. Nothing so far. No swift ambush. Now comes, as they say, the weighing of the gold. How far dare I venture from our bolthole? Surely they are watching, waiting tensed for that one step too many.
Kiska bounded out three steps then immediately spun and raced back as fast as she could then spun again, crouched, stave ready. Nothing. Seen that one before perhaps.
A slight scrape snapped her attention to the rear. Jheval was there, edging out to the far side of the crack. His hands were clasped at the morningstars tied to his waist, ready to pull them free.
What was the fool doing? Offering himself up? Didn’t he trust her to do this right? She waved him back. All for naught, probably. Surely these hounds have better things—
‘Kiska!’
She spun and there one was: bounding in the air, almost upon her. She had the impression of a tawny blur, the red maw, wet fangs, then she yanked her stave between them and the blow knocked her backwards. Sharp rocks slammed into her back, taking the breath from her. She lay dazed for what she was sure was her last moment.
Her awareness cleared and she saw Jheval fending off the hound. The morningstars spun almost invisible from his hands. The hound’s every effort to bull forward or lunge was met by a smashing blow from the flanged iron heads that sent it flinching, snarling and rumbling like the very stones grinding. Kiska put off her amazement at what she was seeing and jumped to her feet. Then it was a chaotic blur of images: her stave thumping the beast’s broad chest, Jheval’s feet clawed from beneath him in a red spray; the stave, twisted, sliding a blade and slashing beneath an eye, buying the time for the man to leap upright. The two retreated, scrambling, alive only because they could cover each other. Then a stumbling collapse backwards into the slim gap to fall over one another.
The beast howled an ecstasy of rage, sprayed froth and blood. Blows shuddered the rock face. Only then could Kiska relax her chest enough to draw a full breath. They lay immobile, limbs entwined, both watching the opening.
Low rumbling as the beast eyed them through the gap; its bulk almost completely occluded the dim half-light. It padded off.
Jheval started laughing. It began as a low chuckle but built to a loud full release of unreserved relief, exhilaration, and frank amazement. Kiska could smile and share an embrace but that was all.
Now she understood that this narrow cave could very well become her tomb. She sat with her knees tight to her chest and covered her face to wipe away hot tears that she could not stop.
* * *
Devaleth went to a side of the Star of Unta’s deck, grasped hold of the cold wet wood. Greymane had left for the final troop vessel while his Adjunct, the young Kyle, had taken a launch out to the Blue transport that would lead the shore assault, there to represent the High Fist. She wondered if the lad was up to it; he appeared to be a savage warrior, but could one so young command the respect of these hardened troops?
There on deck she might have thought of herself as alone when in truth she was far from it: sailors dashed back and forth setting out leather buckets of sand and water, readying ropes and repelling poles. Marines assembled the ship’s armoury of weapons, checked the crossbows, and oiled the large stone-throwing onager at the bows. Amid all this chaos and preparation Devaleth felt at home. She’d grown up spending more time at sea than on land. Her school had been sitting cross-legged next to a ship’s mage, old canny Parell, where she learned her trade through storms, battles, and calm nights when the sea became so still one could see all the way down to Ruse’s infinite gateways.
Nok was at the tall sterncastle, where he would oversee the coming battle. Next to him a Blue liaison coordinated with Swirl by way of a fire in a tall brazier that could be made to flare differing colours, sometimes intense orange, or a brilliant blood red, or green, or even sea blue.
‘The coming battle’ – listen to yourself, woman. As if what is to come can in any way be termed a battle. What is to come will be a slaughter. I may reach land by way of my Ruse talents, but for most of this force it will be the ancient sea god’s cold welcome below.
So why am I here, as this Betrayer so rightly challenged? Because something has to be done. I must make some effort, no matter how feeble it may prove to be.
I, too, am a betrayer.
A marine stopped at her side. ‘High Mage, the Admiral wishes your counsel.’
She nodded. ‘Of course.’
Ever courtly, the Admiral bowed as she joined him. Devaleth was grateful though she knew herself to be a far from courtly figure. Nok waved a long wing-like arm to encompass the night. ‘I would have your impressions, Devaleth. What’s going on?’
‘They have been waiting for a sufficient number of vessels.’
‘To do what?’
‘Attack en masse.’
‘And have they achieved this threshold?’
She shrugged. ‘I have no way of telling. Though I will know it when the order is given.’
He cocked a greying brow. ‘Oh?’
‘It will be given through Ruse,’ she said dully. ‘I will sense it.’
The Admiral glanced at her sharply then smiled behind his thick silver moustache. ‘You do not think much of our chances, do you?’
‘I’m sorry, Admiral. I do not see how this expedition can end any differently from its predecessors.’
He accepted that. His gaze scanned the distant low shapes of the Mare war galleys just visible in the gathering night. An aide came to his side, murmured something. He responded, ‘In a moment’; then, addressing Devaleth, said, ‘You in Korel do not really know the Moranth, do you?’
Uncertain of the Admiral’s tack, the High Mage was slow to respond. ‘No. Not really.’
‘We have been allies for decades now. We’ve achieved great things with what minor alchemies they were willing to trade with us.’
‘I have heard that the Malaz–Moranth alliance has cooled, of late.’
The flagship struck a particularly large wave, the bows rising very tall. Everyone on the sterncast
le braced for the pitch forward. The vessel slammed down into the trough, the bows disappearing in spray. Nok had taken hold of the ship’s tiller. Devaleth alone stood with her hands held behind her back. Amazingly, the charcoal fire still burned in its brazier. A kind of foreign magic? And what was everyone waiting for? This time her Mare compatriots seemed slow to the attack, while the Moranth–Malaz expedition held back as well. She sensed her brethren’s uncertainty. These alien Moranth vessels … what hidden menace was deployed here? They were wary.
‘It is true that our alliance seems to be paper-thin these days,’ Nok said, resuming their conversation. ‘We’ve been unable to get any further soldiers out of them. It may be internal for all we know.’ He gestured to the Blue liaison with him. ‘But our deal with the Blue here is very different. A contract, cut and dried. Nothing political. So now we shall see what the Moranth themselves can accomplish when a task is given over to them wholly.’ He nodded to his liaison. ‘Give the order.’
‘Aye, sir.’ The Moranth Blue dropped a packet on to the brazier. It took a moment to catch, but then it flared, sizzling and popping, to send up a tall silvery-white flame that cast the sterncastle into fierce relief and flashed from the surrounding waters.
Devaleth was forced to turn away, shielding her eyes. Order for what? Engagement? Surely not!
After the blinding actinic-bright flare died down, she straightened, blinking, willing back her night vision. At first she saw nothing, heard only the ship groaning in the high seas. Of course, fool! It will take time for these two unwieldy giants to embrace.
‘Order the transports to move,’ Nok told the liaison.
‘Aye, sir.’ The Blue reached for another packet.
This time Devaleth was ready; she flinched away, an arm across her eyes. As it was, a brilliant gold glow dazzled her vision, fading to leave afterimages of dancing stars.
She straightened, temporarily blind. This was it. Now would be the clash. How many of Greymane’s transports would push through to reach the shore? All you foreign gods, please not the pitiful few of before.
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