‘You are an adherent of the Wolves of War, Captain?’
Her head snapped around, startled, then she smiled shyly. ‘Yes, sir. “The Wolves of Winter”, we name them. I am sworn.’
Rillish waved aside a bundle of scented sticks a spice hawker thrust at him. ‘Sworn, Captain?’
The smile faltered and the woman looked away. ‘Our local faith.’
Much more there, of course – but any business of his?
‘Fist Rillish?’ a voice called from the press. ‘Rillish Jal Keth?’
He scanned the crowd, caught a face upturned, arm raised, straining. ‘Yes?’
It was a young woman, a servant. She offered a folded slip of paper. ‘For you, sir.’
‘My thanks.’ He opened the missive and found himself confronting runes – the written glyphs of the Wickan tongue. Dear Mowri spare him! Hours spent cracking his skull over these as a member of the Wickan delegation returned to him. He frowned over the symbols.
Come. Su.
Ah. One did not refuse the imperative form issued by the shaman Su. Especially when that elder was so respected – or feared – that she ordered about the most potent and famed Wickan witch and warlock, the twins Nil and Nether, as if they were her own children. A relationship not too far from the truth, Rillish mused, in a culture that named all elders ‘father’ and ‘mother’.
And that message conveyed in a manner assuring secrecy as well. He imagined no one else in the entire Imperial capital, other than a Wickan, could parse their runes. He tucked the slip into his glove, regarded Captain Peles. ‘We part ways here, Captain. I have an errand.’
She frowned, disapproving.
A worrier this one, always earnest.
‘My orders …’
‘Were to convey me to the capital. You have done so. Now I have business to attend to.’
A cool inclination of the head: ‘Very good, Fist.’
Rillish reined his mount aside. Not happy, this one, that I should wander off on my own. Perhaps to some tryst … He stopped, turned back on his saddle. ‘Captain, perhaps you would like to accompany me. Have an officer lead the troop to the garrison.’
The woman saluted, the surprise and confusion obvious on her broad open face.
Always wrong-foot them – keeps them on their toes.
Rillish led the captain to the east quarter of the city, a rich estate district. Just last year during the days of the Insurrection the mercenary army the Crimson Guard, an old enemy of the Empire, had attempted to destroy the capital by blowing up the Imperial arsenal. The firestorms that arose after that great blast had raged for days through several of the great family holdings: D’Arl, Isuneth, Harad ’Ul, Paran, and his own, Jal Keth. The devastation had been so widespread because, frankly, the general populace had not been particularly motivated to help out.
And so we reap what we sow.
He hooked a leg around the high pommel of his saddle, easing into a Wickan sitting style – though with a twinge as an old wound cramped his thigh. ‘My family is from here, you know, Captain.’
‘Is that so, Fist.’
‘Yes.’ Not too loquacious this one, either. ‘And what of you? Where are your people from?’
The broad jaws clenched, bunching. Then, reluctantly, ‘A land west of the region you name Seven Cities. A mountainous land of steep coasts.’
‘And does this land have a name?’
The woman actually appeared to blush. Or was it the heat beneath all that armour? ‘Perish, Fist.’
Perish? Don’t know it – though, somehow familiar. ‘Not an Imperial holding, then.’
Now a confident, amused smile curled the lips, almost wolfish. ‘No. And I would counsel against the Empire ever making the attempt.’
‘It seems we may get along well after all, Captain. The Wickans feel the same way – Imperial claims to the contrary.’ Rillish pulled up before the remains of a fire-eaten gateway. ‘And here we are.’
The woman wrinkled her nose at the lingering stink of old fire damage. ‘Are you sure, sir?’
Two figures straightened from the waist-tall weeds choking the gateway: two old veteran Wickans. One was missing an arm, the other an eye. Both offered Rillish savage grins and waved him in. He urged his mount up the bricked approach.
‘They seemed to know you well, sir,’ Peles noted.
‘We shared a long difficult ride once.’
Ahead, the fire-gutted stone walls of a manor house loomed in the deepening afternoon light. Already vines had climbed some galleries. In his mind’s eye Rillish saw those empty gaping windows glowing lantern-lit, carriages arriving up this very approach bearing guests for evening fêtes. He could almost hear the clack of wooden swords in the countless wars he and his cousins had fought through these once manicured grounds. He shook his head to clear it of all the old echoes. Now weeds tangled the blackened brick. Fountains stood silent, the water scummed. Outbuildings, guesthouses, stables, stood as empty stone hulks. And in the midst of it all, smoke rising from cook fires, like conquerors amid the ruins, lay an encampment of Wickan yurts.
Rillish swung a leg over his saddle to slide easily down. The captain struggled with her mount, which seemed disgusted by her inexperience and just as determined to let her know it. Wickan youths ran up to yank its bit. ‘What is this?’ she asked, amazed.
‘Welcome to the Wickan delegation. This estate is now the property of the throne. I suggested that perhaps they could be housed here.’ Not that anyone else would take them. ‘Wan ma Su?’ he asked a girl.
She pointed. ‘Othre.’
‘This way, Captain.’ He led Peles across the grounds to the base of a towering ironwood tree, the only survivor of the firestorm that had raged through the district. The Wickan Elder and shaman, Su, seemed to live here, tucked in amid its exposed roots. The giant had been a favourite of his youth, though its limbs stood too tall for climbing. Rillish wondered whether the tree owed its continuing survival to her presence, or, judging from the woman’s extraordinary age, perhaps it was the other way round.
In either case he found the old woman’s gaze as sharp as ever, following their approach with a hawk-like measure. ‘And who is this great giant of a woman?’ she demanded, displaying all her usual tact.
But Rillish only smiled. He remembered achieving certain difficult clauses in the Wickan treaty of alliance merely by bringing Su into the chambers – how Mallick squirmed under her gaze! Whereas the Emperor still made his skin crawl. ‘Su, may I introduce Captain Peles of Perish.’
Su cocked her head, her black eyes sharpening even further. ‘Perish, you say? Interesting … Come here, child.’
Rillish wondered whether Su had ever heard of Perish; the woman had an annoying way of acting as if her every utterance or act was pregnant with meaning. Yet he’d learned to keep his doubts to himself as any questioning earned a terrifying tongue-lashing. And Peles, to her credit, knelt obediently.
‘Yes,’ Su murmured, peering up at the woman. ‘I see the wolves running in your eyes. Whatever you do, Peleshar Arkoveneth, you must not abandon hope. Hold to it! Do not give in to despair.’ She waved the captain off. ‘That is my warning for you. Now go.’ Peles straightened, bowing. She appeared, if anything, even more pale than before. Those sharp eyes now dug into Rillish. ‘And what of you? How many children have you now?’
‘Another on the way.’
The old shaman sniffed. ‘Very well. At least you are good for something still.’
‘You have some news then? Or did you ask me here just for the pleasantries?’
A crooked finger rose. ‘Careful, friend of my people. You remind me of a fellow I know from Li Heng. My patience is not boundless. You are off for Korel, that tortured land. Here is my warning. You Malazans go to fight a war in the name of the Emperor, but you go to fight the wrong war. Swords cannot win this war. Though the Empire sends many swords, perhaps even the most potent of all its swords, peace can never be brought to that land through force of arms. As
the Sixth has discovered to its own shamed failure.’
She gestured to one side, snapping her fingers. ‘I have arranged to have attached to your command this woman as cadre mage …’
A figure emerged from a nearby yurt, a woman, middle-aged, thick-waisted, her hair a mousy brown tangle. ‘This is Devaleth. She is of Korel. From Fist, actually.’
Rillish was surprised. ‘A Korel mage? How can we possibly—’
‘Trust her? Rillish Jal Keth! As an Untan noble who negotiated a treaty for the Wickans I am disappointed in you. No, we have spoken long and she is concerned, Rillish. Concerned for her people and for her land. She will not betray you.’
He offered the woman a guarded nod.
‘So this is the fellow,’ the woman said to Su, her accent thick.
‘Yes. The best that could be arranged. Time was short, after all.’
Rillish glanced between them. ‘Now wait a moment …’
‘He has been apprised?’
‘Yes. To the extent that he is capable of understanding.’
‘Su!’ Rillish looked to Peles to find the woman hiding a grin behind her hand. He gave the Wickan shaman a curt nod and turned away. ‘It would seem I am outnumbered.’
‘A prudent withdrawal, sir?’ Peles offered, following.
‘Indeed, Captain. Indeed.’
At Imperial Command, Rillish’s honorary Fist rank could not even win him an audience with the secretary to the High Fist D’Ebbin. Instead, a clerk lieutenant studied the packet of orders supplied by Captain Peles and pursed his lips in disbelief. ‘You should have been through here weeks ago.’
Already Rillish’s teeth ached from clenching them. ‘That’s Fist, Lieutenant.’
‘Yes, Fist.’ The lieutenant’s stress made it clear that such a commonplace rank could not possibly impress anyone here at Command. He flipped shut the leather satchel and held it out. ‘Report to the West Tower.’
‘The Tower of Dust? Hasn’t that been given over to the mage cadre?’ The clerk’s tired look told Rillish that he had just been demoted to village idiot. He took the packet from the man’s limp hand.
‘The tower is—’
‘I know the way, Lieutenant.’
Rillish turned to Captain Peles, who had been standing a discreet distance off, helm under her arm.
‘It seems I am for the West Tower.’
Peles saluted, her bright blue eyes puzzled. ‘You are not to accompany us? We embark with the tide. We and some last elements are to catch up with the fleet.’
‘It looks as though they have something else in mind for me.’
Peles bowed, accepting the capriciousness of orders. Rillish answered the bow. Very much at ease with the chain of command, this one, he reflected.
Rillish had not even passed through the main entrance to the West Tower when his papers elicited shocked disbelief from the officious-looking woman challenging all corners. ‘You’re late,’ she accused. Knowing the army, Rillish didn’t bother pointing out that he had only accepted the reactivation a few days ago.
‘This way.’ Her tone allowed no doubt just how much trouble his existence was causing her.
She led him down a circular stairway. Rillish had never before been within the Tower of Dust, or beneath the old palace, and the sensation troubled him. Yet this is my birth city. Is it the taint of the old Emperor that seems to hang over these dusty passages?
They entered a round chamber floored by set stones. Rillish noted graven wards and symbols in silver encircling the floor’s circumference. Black gritty dust lay in heaps kicked aside here and there. Within waited two nondescript cadre mages, a man and a woman, their robes discoloured by the dust. Also waiting was the Fistian mage, Devaleth.
Rillish bowed to the woman. ‘Why did you not mention …’
‘I didn’t know myself,’ she ground out. Clearly she was even more put out than Rillish; her pale round face glistened with sweat even in this cool air, and her hands were clamped to her sides. ‘I have a horror of this,’ she hissed.
‘Of what?’
‘Warren travel.’
Now Rillish understood and he felt his mouth crook up in dry irony. ‘I have no fond memories of it myself.’
The two cadre mages clapped their hands and motioned them aside. Facing one another, they began tracing an intricate series of gestures and motions. While Rillish watched, the space between them darkened. Streaks of grey appeared behind each gesture, as if the mages were painting or slashing the air. Presently, the slashes broadened, thickened, and connected. A great gust of warm dusty air burst into the chamber. Rillish, blinking, hand raised before his face, saw a ragged gap opening on to a dark lifeless plain.
The two mages stepped within. One impatiently beckoned Rillish and Devaleth to follow. He gingerly stepped through. Almost immediately a gust of air pushed him forward. He peered round to find the four of them all alone in the midst of an ugly landscape of ash and gritty dead soil.
The two mages headed off without comment. Rillish let Devaleth go ahead. ‘Where are we?’ he asked.
‘The Imperial Warren,’ the male cadre mage called back over his shoulder, disgusted.
Devaleth barked a cutting laugh. The man glared, but said nothing. Presently he turned away, shoulders hunched.
‘Pray, what amuses?’ Rillish asked as they walked along. The sandals of the mages and his own riding boots raised small clouds of dust that hung lifeless in the heavy air.
‘The Imperial Warren?’ the woman sneered. ‘What arrogance. So may the fleas of a dog name the dog the Fleas’ Dog.’
The mage’s shoulders flinched even higher.
‘You say we are trespassers here?’
Clearing her throat of the dust, the woman spat. ‘Less than that. Cockroaches invading the abandoned house of a lost god. Maggots wiggling across a corpse and claiming it as theirs …’
‘I get the idea,’ Rillish offered, turning away to clear his own throat of the itching dust. Gods, what pleasant companionship. This was to be his cadre mage? ‘So, you are of Fist?’
‘Yes. From Mare.’
Rillish eyed her anew. Mare! A sea-witch of Mare, adept of Ruse! What could possibly have turned her against her own people? ‘I am a veteran of the invasion, you know.’
‘Yes. Su told me.’
‘And … if I may be so indelicate …’
The woman eyed him sidelong. ‘Why am I here now with you Malazans?’
‘Yes.’
She shrugged her rounded shoulders. ‘Travel broadens the mind, my Fist.’
Rillish was about to prod for further clarification but she was staring off into the distance, her mouth tight. He decided to wait, thereby granting the time for her to work through what appeared a natural – and to him understandable – reluctance to speak.
‘Having all you know or have ever been taught overturned as a deep pit of lies is a humbling experience,’ she eventually said, still staring away. ‘It is no wonder no one is allowed to travel from our homelands.’ The thick lips turned upwards in a humourless smile. ‘We were told it was because ours was the happiest and richest of all lands, and that anyone leaving would return to corrupt it with inferior ideologies and ways.’ She eyed the dull leaden sky, pensive. ‘And I suppose that is true – at least the half of it.’
‘I see.’ The woman’s views agreed with what little intelligence Rillish had gathered from interviewing natives of the archipelago. He hoped he could count on her. She would be an invaluable asset. Though she would not last long once exposed as a traitor. She would be marked for death, just as Greymane was for his heresies against their local cult.
He glanced to her as she walked along: head down as if studying the dust, hands clasped at her back.
She knows this far better than I.
Arrival was an anticlimax, even after the dull monotonous walk. The cadre mages merely re-enacted their ritual then curtly waved them through. No doubt in a hurry themselves to quit this unnerving, enervating realm
. They stepped into an empty stone-flagged room, torchlit, disconcertingly similar to the one they’d just left. Rillish’s perplexity was eased by the entrance of an unfamiliar Malazan cadre mage, this one a cadaverous old man.
‘Welcome to Kartool, sir,’ the fellow wheezed. ‘The fleet is assembling. You are just in time.’
‘My thanks.’ Kartool. Vile place. Never did like it. ‘By any chance, would you know who is commanding the force?’
The old mage blinked his rheumy eyes, surprised. ‘Why, yes, Fist. Have you not heard? It is all the talk.’
Rillish waited for the man to continue, then cleared his throat. ‘Yes? Who?’
‘Why, the Emperor has pardoned the old High Fist, Greymane. Reinstated him. Is that not amazing news?’
Rillish was stunned, but he forgot his shock at the grunt of surprise and alarm from Devaleth. The woman had gone white and staggered as if about to faint. Despite his own reeling amazement – his old commander! Whom he had turned his back on! – Rillish caught the woman’s arm, steadying her.
Devaleth shook him off. ‘My apologies. It is one thing to join the enemy. But it is quite another to find oneself serving under a man condemned as the greatest fiend of the age. The Betrayer, they named him, the Korelri. The Great Betrayer.’
Betrayer? Gods! Wouldn’t the man regard him, Rillish, as just that? Didn’t they know at Command? No. They couldn’t have, could they? How the Twins must be helpless with laughter. For was it not his own silence that damned him now?
A mad laugh almost burst from him then as he contemplated the utter ruin he had prepared for himself.
No sooner did one of Bakune’s clerks appear at the door of his office to hurriedly announce, ‘Karien’el, Captain of the Watch,’ than the man himself entered and closed the door gently, but firmly, behind him.
Bakune sat staring, quill upraised, his surprise painfully obvious. Recovering, the Assessor returned the quill to the inkwell and opened his mouth to invite the man to sit, but the Watch captain thumped down heavily before Bakune could speak.
The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire) Page 134
