Assail

by Ian C. Esslemont

He swallowed hard and gestured up the dock. ‘Cartheron’s ship, the Ragstopper.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Cartheron wants both ships ready to cast off.’

  ‘Oh.’ She pointed to two men. ‘You two, go with him. Cartheron wants you guarded.’

  Jute felt his legs weaken. Gods! Was that good or bad? Am I under unofficial arrest? Maybe I’m not being fair to the commander. But he’s of the old guard – infamous for their treachery.

  He raised a hand to wave off Letita. Either Giana missed the gesture, or, more likely, she chose not to notice it, and did not react. One of the Malazans headed down the gangway first, and Jute followed. The second trailed him.

  Scruffy would-be stevedores and touts came shuffling up. They made offers for work, or offered women, d’bayang dust, rustleaf, durhang, khall leaf. The guards brushed them aside. Jute did not think himself in any danger; the poor wretches obviously hadn’t had a decent meal in some time. They did, however, seem to have access to a lot of drugs.

  Reaching the side of the vessel, he shouted: ‘Ho! Ragstopper! Permission to come on board?’ He waited, but no one answered. ‘Ahoy! Ragstopper?’

  He eyed the peeling and barked-up timbers of the galley’s side. A single rope hung over the rail – the only means in and out? ‘Stay here,’ he told his guards, and took hold of the rope to haul himself up. It was a trick he imagined only a fellow sailor could manage.

  He pulled himself over the side. The open galley benches were mostly empty. A few ragged sailors lay sound asleep. Jute carefully picked his way between them and up on to the centre walk. A familiar figure lay slumped and snoring amid jumbled rope here: Cartheron’s putative first mate with his thin mane of frizzy white hair. The sight of the fellow asleep – probably on watch – inflamed the lifelong sailor in Jute. He picked up a coil of rope nearby and heaved it on to the man, shouting, ‘Wake up, you useless whore’s son!’

  The man sprang to his feet with a yell; he peered wildly about while squeezing some small object in both hands: ‘We’ll die together!’ he howled.

  Jute flinched away; the man’s wild rolling eyes latched on to him and he blinked. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ He wiped his gleaming brow. ‘By all that’s holy – don’t you ever do that again.’

  ‘What’s that you’ve got there, then?’

  The man whipped the round fruit-sized object behind his back. ‘Nothing. Nothing ’tall.’

  Jute had a hard time believing the man would’ve been crazy enough to fall asleep while holding a munition. Still, the Ragstopper seemed a floating asylum.

  Now the first mate was frowning suspiciously. ‘What’re you doing here, anyway?’ he growled.

  ‘Orders from Cartheron – he wants you ready to cast off some time this night.’

  The first mate gaped, then his lower lip began to tremble. ‘But he just got here …’ He gazed about in a panic. ‘We can’t … Do you have any idea …’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m just relaying—’

  The man threw himself at Jute and hung on to his shirt. ‘But we have to sell our cargo!’ he blubbered. Alarmed, Jute saw that indeed the man held a munition in one hand; he gently eased it from his grip. The fellow was weeping uncontrollably now. ‘You have no idea what we’ve been through! No harbour would allow us to drop anchor! We’ve been turned away from every city, every port. We’ve been at sea for years. It’s like a curse!’ He tried to shake Jute by his shirt but was too weak. ‘You have to talk some sense into him! Please … for the love of all the gods. Have mercy on us!’

  Jute took hold of the man’s hands and gently eased his grip free. ‘Yes,’ he soothed, ‘I’ll talk to him. I promise. We aren’t going far – just the next town. I promise.’

  The first mate was nodding with him, his eyes swimming. ‘You promise …’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely. On my word.’

  The fellow slumped back down into his nest of rope, hunched, head hanging. ‘Doomed …’ he was murmuring. ‘Retirement, the man said … golden years …’ He covered his face. Jute gently set the munition down nearby and slowly backed away.

  Back on the dock, he blew out a long breath and shook his head. Poor fellow! Clearly addled. Strain of the passage, no doubt. He returned to the Dawn flanked by his two new guards. On board, he went to the bow to watch the darkened slope of the tent city. Torches burned here and there, as did fire pits. A few of the tents were lit from within, though most were dark. The noise of the countless tent-bars, taverns, and inns came and went with the wind – as did the stink – though already he was getting used to it. He waited; for what he had no idea. Considering Cartheron’s reputation, however, he suspected it would be dramatic. Whatever it might be.

  He glanced over and flinched, surprised: next to him stood the skinny pinch-faced khall-head guide, also leaning against the side. ‘How did you—’ he began angrily, then, remembering Cartheron’s warning, cleared his throat and repeated neutrally: ‘How did you get on board?’

  The man merely gave his dreamy smile, more vague than secretive. ‘Same as you,’ he said.

  Jute rolled his eyes. ‘What do you want? A stake?’

  The man’s smile widened as if the thought amused him. He swung his head in a tilted negative. ‘Oh, no. Just here to keep an eye on things.’

  He frowned at the man; for the life of him he couldn’t see what Cartheron saw in the fellow. However, having just seen the Ragstopper, it occurred to him that he would fit right in.

  Fire suddenly blossomed in a quarter of the tent city. Its billowing eruption lit the tent tops. The noise of the blast washed over the Dawn. ‘What the …’ he stammered. A second blast, this one in a different quarter, now lit the high slopes. The guide smiled again and nodded to himself. ‘What’s this?’ Jute demanded.

  The man gave an easy shrug of his bony shoulders. ‘Oh, Lying Gell had a number of caches of food and equipment stashed away. Looks like they’ve been doused in alcohol and set alight.’

  Jute gaped at him. ‘But that means … they’ll all be after …’

  The fellow nodded again. ‘Oh, yes. My guess is the boys are runnin’ for the dock right now with the entire encampment hot on their tails.’

  Jute wasted an instant trying to utter his disbelief, outrage and horror, only to throw his hands in the air and lurch from the side. ‘Man the sweeps!’ he bellowed. ‘Ready poles! Raise anchor! Cut all but one rope there!’

  Lieutenant Jalaz and her cohort ran pounding down the gangway then dashed for the base of the dock. Would-be stevedores and touts went flying from the wood slats to land in the mud. A gang of hires-words had been lounging at the base of the dock amid crates and bales; now they came to their feet and peered up-slope to the fires. From the bows of the Dawn, Jute watched as the Malazans came crashing into them. In a moment, it was over. All of the toughs were down, either knocked unconscious or heaved over the side where they struggled knee-deep in the mud.

  Lieutenant Jalaz now held the dock.

  ‘Captain?’ Jute turned; Letita stood armed and ready, helmet cheek-guards lowered. He shook his head. ‘Stay on board, master-at-arms.’ The woman’s mouth hardened but she did not object. Jute pointed out over the bows. ‘However, we do have a good view of the dock from here …’

  Her lips climbed in a savage grin; she turned to the mid-deck. ‘Archers! Form up!’

  The shouts and iron-clash of fighting now washed down to the Dawn. A gang of Gell’s thugs rushed Jalaz’s squad. This time blood flowed as swords were drawn.

  More tents burst into flame. The yells and cries swelled to a steady roar. Jute could now make out a running mêlée making its way down the tent city. Everything in its way was trampled and destroyed as it came. Men were running both away and towards it.

  A solid crowd now pressed against Jalaz’s position; Jute nodded to Letita. ‘Archers,’ the weapons master called, ‘Thin them out – try to avoid our crew.’

  Her team of forty archers opened fire on the crowd.

  A strange clacking
noise pulled Jute’s attention to the rear. He glanced back and blanched: Benevolent gods forgive us. The Ragstopper’s springals were being brought round to bear on the shore.

  He’d seen what they’d done to the fortifications at Old Ruse, and now … civilians? Yet could any soul here truly be counted as an innocent civilian? Very few, no doubt. And those should be fleeing the scene rather than closing on it.

  The springals released with twin bangs and fat bolts shot overhead in trajectories lower than the Dawn’s tops’l. Twin explosions lit the darkness and sent geysers of wet earth to the night sky – along with cartwheeling doll-like figures. The mud and debris came pattering across the dock and smacked into the mud flats like wet fists.

  Into the profound silence following the eruptions, Lieutenant Jalaz’s voice came bellowing out of the darkness: ‘Watch where yer shooting, y’damned apes!’

  The pause was only momentary as the fighting renewed itself. The running scrum broke into the open close to the waterfront. Jute could make out individual figures within the press: the two Falarans who’d given their names as Red and Rusty – which was a joke of course, all Falarans tell outsiders their name is Red. And in the middle of the pack, a scrawny grey-haired figure pointing and shouting commands: Cartheron. The roiling knot now made for the dock. Sword blades flashed in the light of waving torches. Men and women cursed and grunted at blows given and taken.

  The huge figure of Black Bull reared into view before Lieutenant Jalaz. He leaned in swinging two-handed. She met him with twinned shortswords. The weapons slid and grated across one another in blows and parries until one of Jalaz’s swords flicked up across the man’s beard and he reared back in a spray of blood. He clasped his throat, his eyes rolling white in the darkness. She raised a boot to his chest and kicked him down.

  Jute couldn’t fathom the numbers of these would-be miners and fortune-hunters all piling in, all struggling to tear the Malazans apart. He’d been there when they’d been told Lying Gell’s thugs numbered some three hundred. Yet far more than that – a horde of over a thousand – now clamoured to pull them down. And more were arriving every minute.

  Something, it seemed, had turned the entire tent city of Wrong-way against Cartheron and his crew. Lying Gell couldn’t command that sort of loyalty, could he? But then, maybe it had something to do with them having just blown up or burned all the food in the town.

  The crew, or gang, pushed through to the dock and linked with Jalaz and her squad. The entire troop now retreated up the dock. Letita kept up her punishing volleys of arrow fire. Then the springals released once more and Jute couldn’t help but duck.

  The end of the dock disappeared in twin concussions that shot bodies and timber high into the air to come raining down as debris that knocked more people from the dock. When the smoke cleared, Jute glimpsed the Malazans backing away, headed for the Ragstopper. In their midst, lumbering like two laden oxen, struggled two of the Barghast veterans. They carried between them a huge iron trunk.

  Jute almost laid his head on the ship’s railing. Oh, no … Cartheron … y’damned pirate. Don’t tell me you …

  Lieutenant Jalaz came bounding up the gangway. ‘Push off!’ she yelled.

  Jute blinked and shook his head; at her cry it was as if his daze from the explosion snapped away. ‘Cut that rope!’ he bellowed. ‘Push off! Lower sweeps!’

  Arrows and crossbow bolts thudded into the Dawn’s side and Jute ducked. It looked as if the entire population of Wrongway now lined the shore. Many were striding out into the deep mud, waving swords and torches. The roar of the mingled yells and curses drowned out everything.

  The Dawn pulled away; the gangplank tumbled into the water.

  Something flaming arced from the shore to burst on the deck spreading fire. Everyone not manning the sweeps dashed to help smother the flames. More flaming pots came flying their way. All but one fell short and that one smacked the sternplate. The crew dashed water over the flames as the dock receded into the darkness behind.

  ‘Well,’ Ieleen said into the relative silence. ‘What got them all in a tizzy?’

  Jute held his head. ‘You don’t want to know.’

  Lieutenant Jalaz joined them, a helmet under an arm. ‘They’ll give chase,’ she said, and she brushed her sweaty matted hair from her face, breathing heavily.

  Jute turned on her, furious. ‘Oh, you think so, do you? Think they’ll give chase – seeing as you just stole all their damned gold!’

  But the lieutenant merely shook the blood from a deep cut across her hand. ‘Well, what in the name of the forest gods did you think we’d do?’

  Jute kept his hands on his head, if only to stop himself from grabbing hold of the woman. God’s blood! Fifty ships pushing out to chase them! Nowhere to run! But … there was one place. He raised his head. ‘We’ve been had, dearest,’ he said.

  ‘How so, luv?’ Ieleen answered.

  ‘Cartheron … This is what he intended from the start – or was hired for!’ He thrust a finger at Jalaz. ‘Were you sent ahead?’

  The woman’s face wrinkled up in a scowl. ‘What in the name of the Sky King are you talking about?’ And she cursed, studying the blood dripping to the decking from her hand. Letita had joined them and now she lifted the hand then pulled a strip of cloth from her belt and began tying up the wound.

  ‘Calm yourself, luv,’ Ieleen said. ‘Lieutenant – why don’t you tell us what Cartheron told you?’

  Lurjen, at the tiller, cleared his throat. ‘Shall I follow the Rag-stopper, cap’n?’

  ‘Aye!’ Jute snapped. ‘We can’t let him out of our sight now, can we?’

  The lieutenant shrugged. ‘He just asked whether we wanted a share o’ all that gold those lying bastards had been cheating from everyone. And we were all in, of course.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘No, why?’

  Jute gestured to the dark waters of the bay. ‘Because anchored out there is a sorceress and a pocket army of mercenaries who could sweep this entire northern region if they wanted to, that’s why. And if they’re not interested in this sorry-ass tent city – then the question is … why are they here?’

  Jalaz glanced ahead to the starlit bay. The dark silhouette of one ship was just visible. It appeared that the Ragstopper was making for them. ‘I see only one vessel.’

  ‘Trust me. Those are the Blue Shields out there.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  Jute blinked at the woman, surprised by the strength of her reaction. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Listen, Malazan, I may be from the north, but even I have heard of the Blue Shields and the Grey Swords. The Blue are not really mercenaries – they fight only for Togg. You can’t hire them. They’re a religious order. Fanatics.’

  Jute gestured ahead again, invitingly. ‘Well, they’re here. Along with their Mortal Sword of Togg, Tyvar Gendarian.’

  Giana glanced away once more, scanned the waters. She drew a hand down her face, rubbing away the sweat. ‘Great gods,’ she murmured. ‘He’s actually left Elingarth?’

  ‘Ragstopper veering east,’ Dulat, the lookout, shouted down. ‘Resolute and Supplicant drawing anchor, raising sail.’

  ‘What’s east of here?’ Jute asked the retired officer, though he suspected he knew.

  She looked back, blew out a long hard breath. ‘Some sort of fortress at Mantle. Ruled by a fellow who calls himself King Ronal the Bastard.’

  CHAPTER IX

  THE LAND ROSE the farther north Kyle travelled. He had yet to find any open water. The grasses grew far taller and thicker here, attesting to rainfall, but the high spring clouds passed on south without pausing to disgorge any of their moisture here. He pushed through lush green growing shoots that brushed his thighs. Today, he knew, he had to find some source of water or tomorrow he might not have the strength to rise. As it was, he barely made any progress at all. His vision was blurry; he often had to pause to gather his wits to remain certain of his direction; and he had to stop himse
lf from wandering here or there in a futile search for a pond or a stream.

  Straight. Straight east of north was the way to go. Upland. Wandering in circles would be the death of him. Yet he was so thirsty – he might have passed right by a creek off to one side! He was just thinking that perhaps he really ought to search about for water before it was too late when he fell forward.

  He lay thinking that he’d misstepped. But no, the ground fell away here into a depression, and, strangely, his hands felt cold where they pressed against the earth.

  Cold … and damp. He dug at the thick mat of grass roots that covered the earth here. It was wet and frigid. He couldn’t tear through – he was too weak. On his knees now, he drew his blade and pushed it into the ground. Two-handed, he cut a triangle, then wearily, as carefully as he could manage, he resheathed the weapon. He gathered up a handful of the grass and heaved. He had to put all his weight into it, leaning back. It came in a ripping and tearing of roots and he fell on to his back.

  It took a while for the dizziness to pass.

  He crawled forward and sank his arms up to the elbows to dig at the cold earth beneath. He came up with a fist of hard dirt, frosty-white, and speckled with earth. It took him a while to understand what he was looking at: the very ground frozen solid. A knot of ice that must have resided here for years, perhaps for untold centuries. He thrust the entire ball into his mouth and held it there.

  The pain was exquisite. His head numbed and ached. It felt as if that knot of frost had expanded to engulf his entire body. Something told him that if anyone from another region, another land, had tried what he had just so impetuously done they would have died. Something, some power, residing in this ancient ice would have overcome them.

  Yet he felt somehow … rejuvenated. He stood, steady now on his feet, and lurched onward.

  He entered a wide forest of tall, ancient conifers. Game was plentiful, yet he chose not to take the time to hunt. He contented himself with fish taken from a stream. The ground rose more steeply now.

  He had just crossed another shallow steam of frigid glacial runoff when a crossbow bolt slammed into a tree on the shore next to him. He froze and turned.