Return of the Crimson Guard: A Novel of the Malazan Empire

by Ian C. Esslemont

  Frowning, Shimmer followed his glance; sure enough, while she stood lost in thought the column had marched completely past. She was noticing such moments more often now that she and the other Avowed moved among – how should she put it – normal men and women. Occasionally, she or and another Avowed would stand sharing a conversation, or their reminiscences, only to find an entire afternoon had fled. It was as if they had entered into a different time – or more accurately a differing perception of it – from the rest of humanity.

  She inclined her head and invited Greymane onward. ‘Shall we join them?’

  A half-smile pulled at the man's fleshy mouth and he bowed.

  ‘Many of the Avowed wonder at your being with us here, Greymane,’ she said as they walked. ‘Once more we will face Imperials – perhaps those of your old command.’

  A thoughtful nod of agreement. ‘We will face Imperials, but none of my command. They remain trapped in Korel. The truth is I am even more pleased to be among the Guard with what we hear of this civil war, or insurgency, call it what you will, and this Talian League. It would seem to me that any domestic, ah, reorganization, would hopefully work against the continuance of, ah … overseas entanglements.’

  Shimmer regarded the wide-shouldered ex-commander. The wind pulled at his long, straight grey hair; sun and wind had tanned his round, blunt features a dark berry hue. Obviously, the man had benefited from his share of the life-extending Denul rituals the riches of Empire allowed. It occurred to her that here was one of the few people alive who could be considered close to an Avowed himself. Yet so far what had he demonstrated while among them? Very little. The majority of her brothers and sisters were – to be honest – dismissive of the man. They regarded him a failure, a flawed officer who had broken under the strain of a difficult command. She however sensed within him something more. A veiled strength great enough to have defied not only his own superiors but the Korelan Stormguard as well. Overseas entanglements’ Obviously, here also was an officer who felt keenly the responsibilities of leading soldiers.

  ‘I have been considering my staff and I'm offering you a captaincy and command of a flank in the field.’

  The man's grey-shot brows climbed. ‘A captaincy?’

  ‘Yes. Do you accept?’

  ‘I am honoured by your trust. But perhaps there will be objections—’

  There damn well will be objections, but no challenges. Do you accept?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Now, what can we do to make these recruits reliable?’

  A grin of square white teeth. ‘A few small victories would go a long way.’

  * * *

  The chambers of Li Heng's ruling High Court of Magistrates were known officially as the Hall of Prudence and Conscientious Guidance; to others it was the Palace of Puckering and Spluttering. Predictably, it mirrored the city as a round room where a raised gallery looked down on a central floor. A continuous table of pink marble circuited the upper gallery where the magistrates held court over all petitioners below.

  Hurl, her torso tightly bandaged beneath her leathers, now occupied that floor, alongside Storo, Silk, Liss, Rell and Captain Gujran. Gritting her teeth, it was all she could do to stop herself from walking out on this absurd proceeding immediately. But Storo had requested her cooperation and so she was present, despite the strong need for a drink. It was also only the first time she'd seen Silk since the attack – the mage had been busy or making himself absent of late. She still had a lot of pointed questions for him regarding that city mage, Ahl.

  The magistrates fiddled and shuffled their papers, or rather, their servants did, sitting behind them and acting as their amanuenses. Many eyes, Hurl noted, watched not Storo, as one might expect, but rather the wiry Genabackan youth Rell, who stood with his head lowered, long greasy hair obscuring his face. Rumours abounded of what this man had accomplished at the North Gate of the Inner Round. Hurl was not surprised; she'd seen him in action enough not to be surprised by any of his unbelievable acts of swordsmanship.

  Magistrate Ehrlann tapped the butt of his switch on the table, cleared his throat. ‘Honoured fellow magistrates, assembled citizens, appellants. We are gathered here to discuss a serious course of action arising from the recent catastrophes inflicted upon this city by its current military leadership.’ Behind Ehrlann his servant, Jamaer, scribbled awkwardly on a vellum sheet balanced on his knees. The magistrate pointed the switch at Storo. ‘Sergeant Storo Matash, temporarily promoted Fist, do you have anything to say in your defence at this time?’

  Storo unclasped his hands from behind his back, his broad face impassive. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  High above them, the magistrates exchanged uneasy glances. Ehrlann shook his switch as if dusting the table of the case. ‘Very well, commander. You leave us no choice but to pursue the painful course of action this court has decided upon.’ He pointed the switch. ‘You, Fist, are stripped of all rank, dismissed and placed under arrest for gross negligence.’ The switch flicked to Captain Gujran. ‘You, Captain, by the power invested in this court, are promoted to rank of Fist – on a provisional basis only, of course – and charged with military command of this city. Your first action as commander will be to open negotiations with the besieging force to explore terms of surrender. There you are, Fist Gujran. You have your commission. Please act upon it.’

  Hurl turned to peer about the room, at the set faces of the magistrates glowering in a full circle down upon them. It occurred to her that the place didn't have one window. Just seven old men and five old women blinking inward at one another from across a circular room. A single window looking out on the city, it seemed to her, would have helped this court a great deal. As it was, Captain Gujran standing beside her just scratched a flame-scorched brow and said, ‘No.’

  The switch froze. ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  The switch trembled. ‘Think, Captain. You are risking your future, your career. You are being offered a rank far above that which your breeding could otherwise ever allow.’

  Gujran's hands went to his belt. ‘You're doin’ yourself no favours with that, magistrate.’

  ‘Enough of this charade,’ Magistrate Plengyllen burst out from where he sat a quarter of the way around the room. ‘Arrest the lot of them.’ He waved his switch at a guard. ‘Summon the soldiers of the court. Arrest these criminals.’

  The guard glanced to the centre of the room. Storo gave the smallest of assents. The guard left. Three of the twelve magistrates also sprang to their feet and hurriedly left the room. Hurl grasped Storo's arm to point but Storo waved her concern aside. Shortly the magistrates reappeared, backing into the chamber, forced in by soldiery filling all exits.

  Magistrate Ehrlann glanced about, took in the soldiery, their Imperial colours, and swore. He threw his switch to the tabletop. He slipped his fingers over the forward edge of the table, his mouth twisting his disgust. ‘So,’ he hissed. ‘It comes to this. Usurpation of legitimate republican rule. Once more you Malazans are revealed for the pirates and thugs you are. Your rule is the sword and the fist. Ours authority arises from the consent of the ruled. We shall see of which history approves.’

  Storo inclined his head to the guards, who motioned the magistrates from their seats. ‘It seems to me, Magistrate Ehrlann, that you are only legitimately blind to the truth that oppression comes in many forms. Consider, if you are capable, the rather narrow constituency you and your circle claim to speak for in this city for the last hundred years.’

  The magistrate gaped at Storo – as did Hurl. Never before had she heard the man speak in such a manner. It occurred to her that many hours of expensive private tutoring stood behind such opinions.

  Contact with rulership seemed to be bringing out the man's hidden talents.

  As a guard reached for him, Ehrlann spun to his servant. ‘Do something, Jamaer! They're arresting me!’ Jamaer's feather pen scratched as he dutifully copied do
wn the magistrate's words. Snarling, Ehrlann slapped the papers from the man's lap. ‘No, no! Do something, you fool. You've worked for me for over thirty years! Doesn't that count for something?’

  Slowly, solemnly, Jamaer handed the magistrate his umbrella.

  Hurl suppressed a laugh while Liss chortled. The stunned incomprehension on Ehrlann's face was worth it.

  Once the magistrates had been taken away Storo ordered the guard to withdraw. He waited for the room to clear, his hands reclasped at his back, and studied the flagged black marble floor. Silk paced, and Hurl noted that despite the opportunity, even in a besieged city, the mage had yet to replace or mend his tattered finery, or even repair his worn boots. He also noted that while the mage paced from one side of the room to the other, his glance unfailingly returned to Storo. While Storo, it seemed to her, with his downcast eyes, was avoiding the man's attention.

  Then Liss straightened, hissing, and faced the single lower floor entry portal. Silk stopped pacing. Three men entered – or, rather, three versions of what seemed to Hurl to be the same man, though each was dressed differently – Ahl, the very mage who had saved her. Hurl rubbed her eyes. Liss visibly shrank from the three's advance. Reacting to the tensions of the room, Rell shifted to stand next to Storo, his hands on the grips of his twinned swords now returned to his shoulder baldrics.

  Liss's heated gaze darted to Silk. ‘How dare you invite this man – this creature – back into the city.’

  ‘We need allies, Liss.’

  A fat arm shot out, pointing. ‘That Path is an abomination!’

  As one, the three grinned – though their smiles were not identical; the one Hurl was sure had introduced himself as Ahl, the left side of his face drooped as if dead, while another's right side hung slack, also as if dead. The third seemed to suffer no such affliction at all. Studying them more closely now, Hurl noted many more differences: one had his hair cut short while it hung long and unkempt on another. Each also bore differing wounds: a facial slash on one, a mangled, mishealed hand on another.

  ‘Nice to see …’ said the one in a soldier's light leathers.

  ‘… You too …’ said Ahl, wearing his dirty frayed robes.

  ‘… Liss,’ finished the third, in a reversed sheepskin tunic sashed at his waist.

  ‘Explanations, Silk,’ Hurl demanded in the silence following the three Ahls’ eerie, mangled form of communication. Six glittering black eyes shifted to Hurl and she felt the power of that regard, like a red-hot iron plate held just before her face.

  ‘Later,’ Silk said, and the weight of the three's eyes slid from Hurl leaving her able to inhale.

  Liss obviously had more to say but Storo straightened, letting out a long breath, and turned to study everyone present. Smiling at a sudden funny thought, he scratched a thumb across his chin. ‘Ehrlann was closer to the truth than he realized. We are gathered here to consider a very serious course of action.’

  Silk was shaking his head, his thin blond hair tossing. ‘No,’ he barely mouthed, hushed. ‘Don't do it.’

  Liss took a step to Storo, her eyes now narrowing to slits, the three forgotten. ‘Do – what?

  ‘We're far outnumbered, Liss. Have to shorten the odds. And a way does exist to do just that. Here, in the city.’

  The Seti shamaness, who claimed to be the reborn Vessel of Baya-Gul, patroness of all Seti Seeresses, stood frozen for an instant, then, it appeared to Hurl, her matted greasy ropes of hair actually seemed to stand on end and her eyes, raw red with exhaustion, widened in horror. ‘So,’ she said, now nodding her comprehension, ‘this is how it will be fulfilled – his last words: “Those who hate me most shall set me free”.

  ‘Who—’ began Hurl.

  ‘What of the containment wards?’ Liss demanded.

  ‘Between all of us, we have a chance,’ Silk said, hugging himself.

  Liss snorted her disdain. ‘Us? Wards set by Tayschrenn, the emperor himself and Gods know how many mage cadres?’

  ‘We think …’

  ‘… we can …’

  ‘… manage.’

  A fat arm shot out to point in the three's direction. ‘You stay out of this.’ Liss faced Storo. ‘Please, consider all the lives that will be lost. The bloodshed.’

  ‘That's the idea, Liss. I'm sorry, but he'll tear them to pieces out there and that's what we want.’

  The old woman shook her head. ‘And after all this is over, Storo? All the lives to be lost in the centuries to come? What of them?’

  Storo lowered his gaze. ‘We'll deal with that then – assuming any of us remain alive.’

  Hurl had had enough. ‘What are you two talking about?’ she shouted. ‘What's going on, Captain?’

  The three regarded one another in silence for a time. Then Silk turned to her. ‘The man-jackal's still alive, Hurl,’ he said, still hugging himself. ‘He was imprisoned beneath the city. Probably yet another of the hidden assets Kellanved seemed to love salting away for emergencies.’

  ‘I heard he was cast over the cliffs of the escarpment.’

  ‘He was,’ said Silk.

  ‘What? Am I just slow or am I missing something here?’

  ‘Many have claimed to have destroyed him but he just keeps showing up again. Some say he is unkillable. That so long as the plains remain, so shall he. But…’ and the mage's gaze slid to the three brothers, ‘there are other theories.’

  The three gave Silk their mix-matched unnerving grins. The avid glitter of their eyes made Hurl's skin shiver. They struck her as unhinged.

  ‘In any case, Silk knows how to get to him,’ Storo said.

  Hurl looked from face to face. Gods no. Ryllandaras. The eater-of-men. Heng's Curse. A God, some said. She shook her head, appalled by the vision of centuries of slaughter. ‘No, Captain. Don't do it. They'll curse your name for a hundred years.’

  ‘There!’ Liss pointed again. ‘That from the most level head among you.’

  Storo kicked at the polished black flagging. ‘Rell?’

  The Genabackan did not answer immediately. He kept his head low. ‘Do not ask me strategy,’ he finally said.

  Waving that aside, Storo took hold of one of the man's sheathed weapons and shook it. ‘Think tactically.’

  A shrug. ‘In that case there is nothing to discuss. We are engaged in a duel. We have an opportunity to wound the enemy. We must take it.’

  ‘That's good enough for me.’ Storo motioned Silk to the exit.

  ‘Wait!’ Liss raised a commanding hand. ‘There is more going on here than just this. I must speak now as Seeress. Have you forgotten that Ryllandaras is said to be brother to Trake? Of the First Heroes? Trake ascends as god of war and now war comes to Heng and his brother is released? Is this coincidence? Just who do we serve here – have you considered any of this?’

  Broad, feral smiles had been spreading on the crippled lips of the three Ahls for some time now. The madness that seemed to sparkle in their eyes kept dislodging Hurl's thoughts. Looking away, she offered, ‘It would serve Trake, I imagine.’

  Or weaken him? Might he challenge his brother? Are we releasing a rival claimant to the Godhead? And what sort of god? You forget, Ryllandaras is the enemy of humanity.’

  ‘He's …’

  ‘… no …’

  ‘… god.’

  ‘You fool!’ Liss stamped a sandalled foot, cracking a marble flag in an explosion that echoed like the eruption of a Moranth munition and rocked Hurl where she stood. In the stunned silence following, all recovered from their flinch and stared at the fat woman in her tattered layered skirts and stained muslin wrap. ‘The Seti have worshipped him for ten thousand years!’

  Storo rubbed a hand over his balding pate, glanced to the others. ‘Well. They'll be spared the brunt of his savagery. He'll fall on the Talian forces. Just what we want.’

  ‘You remain determined?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Liss tightened her wrap, shaking her head. ‘Do not expect my help.’

&nbs
p; ‘Very well. I'm sorry.’ Storo motioned to the exit. Coming aside Hurl, he said, ‘They can curse my name, Hurl, so long as they die doing it.’

  * * *

  The ancestral castle of the D'Avig family of Unta was burning at night. Flames gouted from windows and painted the keep in writhing shadows. The town of the same name it overlooked echoed with screams and the harsh clap of hooves as Wickan raiders looted and burned. But no slaughter, Rillish told himself. Please, Lady, little of that. Nil and Nether had been stern in their warnings – take all you want but no killing. Not that some would not die this night. Rillish had witnessed enough sackings to know it inevitable, as hot blood demanded it. Still, the twins’ warning ought to carry weight – they'd threatened the most ignoble punishment imaginable to any Wickan – death by drowning.