In deference to her position as mage she also had one of the two tents; the other served the mobile infirmary, which followed along the route of march drawn by a team of oxen. All other logistical support and followers – the blacksmiths, armourers and cooks – Greymane had left behind in his utter determination to catch up. For the rankers, it was scavenge on the march or starve. Devaleth saw abandoned overgrown garden plots pillaged, roaming livestock claimed, and even a wild ubek doe brought down by javelins and butchered on the spot, haunches carried off over shoulders for the cook fires.
Each night she had to track down Greymane. She’d eventually find him wrapped in his muddied travelling cloak, lying among the troopers next to some fire or other. His long ash-grey hair would be almost luminous in the night, and likewise the beard he was growing. Devaleth would ease herself down near the fire and from the edge of her gaze usually spend the evening studying the puzzle that was this man.
It seemed to her that he was in his element. Here, in the field, sharing the company of the regulars. Clearly, this was where he was most comfortable. No wonder he’d been so eager to get away. Yet what of the men and women of his command? She knew some officers liked to fancy themselves as being of the common people, with a common touch and able to rub shoulders with the average rankers, when they clearly actually lacked all such gifts. From the glances and bearing of all those the High Fist talked to or sat among Devaleth saw that he had their hearts. In this manner he fit the mould of the old Malazan commanders she’d heard of: the legendary Dujek, the gruff Urko, or the revered Whiskeyjack.
Yet on this subcontinent he was the most reviled criminal in history. Here was the man who, when she was a student at the Mare academy, dared to approach the enemy, the Riders, who would wipe them all from the face of the earth. Was he an utter solipsist? No, he did not strike her as such. Heartless sociopath? Again, no. Or to be pitied as a pathetic gullible fool? No, not that.
Then … what?
He was a mystery. A man who went his own way and be damned to the consequences. She didn’t know whether to admire the fellow, or to be profoundly terrified of him.
That dilemma took a new twist when, on the fifth day of marching, the ground shook. It was a common tremor; Devaleth was used to them. Local folk superstition attributed them to the Lady’s struggle against the Riders. This one appeared to have been centred nearby as the ground opened up beneath the rear elements and many tumbled into a gaping sinkhole. Soon after this the van was crossing a stream when a flash flood stormed down with stunning fury and swept some fifty soldiers away. It was the first of many more disasters: ravines collapsing, rockslides down steep valley sides. It was as if the very ground were revolting against them.
Yet none of these manifestations struck near where Greymane marched. A region of peace and calm seemed to encircle him. No tremor could be felt. No twisting ridgeback descent was suddenly swept out from beneath his feet. Sensibly, as the days passed, and the tremors intensified, the column came to constrict around wherever Greymane happened to be walking. And since Devaleth accompanied the High Fist, she was always caught up in the crush.
The ninth night of the march she sat at a fire with the High Fist. She had wrapped her robes and blankets around her, arms tight about her knees; the cold had intensified as they approached the windward side of the island. During a moment of relative privacy she cleared her throat and ventured, low: ‘She reaches for you but she cannot catch hold. Why is that?’
The man’s ice-cold eyes slid to her and the wide jaws slowly unbunched. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘We both know what I’m talking about.’
The lips pulled down, granting acknowledgement. ‘Do you know what the troopers think?’
‘What does that have to do with it?’
He smiled as if having achieved some sort of victory. ‘What have you noticed recently? How have the boys and girls been treating you?’
Devaleth frowned. What insanity was this? Certainly they were talking to her now, offering advice on how to ride. And she’d noticed she was never alone. A number of them now flanked her all through the day. And they offered bowls of berries and hot strips of meat from whatever animal happened to be on the fire at night.
He leaned close to lower his voice. ‘They think you’re the one defending them.’
She stared at the High Fist, appalled. ‘But that’s not true!’
He raised a hand for silence. ‘That doesn’t matter.’ He eased back; his gaze returned to the fire where it usually rested, studying the flames. ‘I’ve come to understand that the truth isn’t really what’s important.’ He cocked his head, his cold blue gaze edging back to her. ‘What really matters is what people come to agree is the truth.’
Devaleth found she could not hold his gaze and glanced away. Was that a message for her? For everyone? Was everything, then, a lie? Yet he had not denied that he did approach the Riders.
‘Get some sleep now,’ he said, rolling over and wrapping himself in his thick cloak. ‘We’ll reach the Ancy valley tomorrow or the next day. There’ll be no sleep then.’
Suth was freezing on his perch under the bridge. The wind whipped unimpeded through the wooden girders he and members of the 6th squad sat among like miserable monkeys. It had dried him but sucked all the warmth from him in doing so. Constant traffic rattled and groaned overhead across the squared timbers of the bridge bedding. Dust and gravel rained down, threatening to make him cough. He hugged himself, adjusted his numb buttocks, and tried to pull some slack from the rope securing him to his seat. Beneath his feet the blue-grey waters of the Ancy churned past.
They’d climbed what the saboteurs named ‘piers’: timber frames filled with rocks and rubble. The bridge rested atop five of them. They hid high among the braces and joists of the underframing, safe from the eyes of those up and down the shores. Still, it made Suth twitch to see the enemy collecting water and urinating just a stone’s throw from the most shoreward pier.
He and the 6th occupied the top of one of the central piers standing in the deepest water. Elsewhere, the second pier eastward, the rest of the 17th had taken up a similar position. He’d tried slithering out to rejoin them but the 6th’s sergeant, Twofoot, had signed an enraged no.
And so they waited, hidden, while the saboteurs did whatever it was they were supposed to do. Which so far looked to Suth like absolutely nothing. The 6th’s, Thumbs and Lorr, had pulled themselves out to a bundle roped to the bridge’s supports midway between two piers and there they’d remained all morning, pointing to various parts of it and whispering.
Bored and numb with cold, Suth turned to the nearest trooper and whispered, ‘What’re they up to?’
This heavy infantryman kept some kind of leaf-and-nut concoction jammed in one cheek. ‘Checkin’ it out,’ came the laconic reply between chews.
No kidding. They’ve been doing that all morning. ‘Yeah. But what’re they gonna do?’
A shrug. ‘Gotta check for boobytraps.’
‘Then what?’ Suth whispered again.
‘I dunno. Disarm ’em, I suppose.’
Suth sat back, defeated by the soldier’s denseness – or at least his unrelenting pose of it. ‘What’s your name, anyway?’
The man chewed for a time as if giving the question some thought, then said, ‘Fish.’
Fish. Suth eyed the fellow, the thick arm slung through a triangular gap between timbers, the wide bovine jaws working. Fish? ‘Why Fish?’
‘I dunno. The drill sergeant asked about my family so I said, “We fish.” So he says, okay. You Fish.’
Suth stared. Remarkable. All without the slightest inflection. He would’ve liked to have pressed the fellow to see how far he could carry it; but perhaps that was enough talk as Twofoot glared murder at him whenever he opened his mouth. He sat back again in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. ‘Right.’
Something moved over his head and he jerked a flinch that nearly dropped him from
his perch to hang over the river like a piece of idiotic fruit. It was a saboteur, a woman, pulling herself along a timber, skinny in muddy leathers. She let herself down next to him to take up a squatting pose, arms over her head gripping the wood. She winked. He nodded back, uncertain. He’d seen her before: damned ugly with snaggled teeth, bulbous eyes that looked able to peer in two directions at once. Long hair pulled back and tied so tight as to make her eyes bulge even more. Urfa. The saboteur lieutenant.
‘What’s up?’ he barely mouthed.
‘Time to start the show.’ And she bared her yellow uneven teeth.
‘You going to drop the munitions into the river?’
The woman looked absolutely horrified. She eyed him as if he were crazy. ‘Hood no! We’re gonna keep them.’ Then she swung out under the horizontal timber, hand over hand, nothing beneath her but river, shaking her head at his stupidity.
Well how was I supposed to know? He watched while Urfa joined the short, rotund Thumbs and the equally lanky Lorr on their crowded perch. The three of them began pulling out tools from various pockets all about their trousers, vests and jerkins. Elsewhere, Len and Keri would be starting this very process. The idea of Keri leaning over a munition and being blown to bits made him squirm. Still, the woman had a gentle deft touch – if that counted for anything. And if things went awry with Thumbs here he’d be just as dead as well.
Ussü was washing his hands at a basin when Borun ducked into his tent. The Moranth commander looked at the sheet-covered body on the central table, then at Ussü. ‘Any news?’
Ussü frowned his disappointment. ‘No. None. This one died immediately. Shock. Sometimes the heart just gives out. Have you anyone else?’
‘We do have a captive …’
‘Yes? Bring him. I must see what’s going on.’
The Moranth Black officer gripped his belt in both gauntleted hands and was quiet for a time, his gaze on the body. Ussü knew his friend well enough to read reluctance and a kind of vague unease. ‘Yes?’
‘She is … Malazan.’
‘Ah. I see.’ Unease on two fronts. ‘Do not worry, my friend. We are at war. We must do what we must.’
The matt-dark helm inclined a slow acquiescence. ‘Very good, High Mage. She will be sent.’ Borun ducked from the tent.
Ussü turned to his aides, pointed to the body. ‘Get rid of that. Prepare the table.’
Yurgen bowed. ‘Yes, High Mage.’
When the captive was delivered Ussü was disappointed by how tiny she was. Not much room in the chest cavity to reach the heart. He gestured for his apprentices to prepare her. She was gagged, her arms stretched out to either side and strapped, legs bound straight. Ussü found himself studying her face much more closely than he had any prior subject. Hazel eyes bored into his, full of animal fury. Spirit. And tawny. Were you of Tali perhaps? A soldier? But so gracile! A scout, possibly. Yes, probably so. Still, there is hope. This conceit some have of males being stronger than females – not borne out by the evidence. Women always endure longer than men. Through privation, stress, even wounds. And so perhaps my efforts will bear fruit.
Taking his sharpest instrument, an obsidian-bladed scalpel, he cut open her ragged shirt, exposing her side. Then, feeling his way with his fingers, he slit down vertically between the ridges of two ribs. He held out a hand: ‘Spacer.’
The wood and brass instrument was set into his palm. Probing with his fingers he found purchase on the ribs. The subject convulsed, gurgling an agonized scream; Ussü flinched away. Damn. Have to start all over again. ‘Stop her from moving!’
‘Yes, High Mage.’ Yurgen and Temeth leaned on the slight woman, using their weight to steady her torso.
‘Very good. Let’s begin again, shall we …’
At the first turn of the spacing screws the subject let out a lacerating incoherent howl of anguish then slumped, unconscious. Thank the Lady! Now I can concentrate. He pressed ahead with the procedure while he could. When his questing fingertips brushed the woman’s heart he felt his Warren come to him with a power he hadn’t felt in decades. Head down close to the subject’s naked shoulder, eyes shut, his inner sight pierced the edges of Mockra and flew free.
And almost immediately the Lady was there to greet him. It was as if a cat had taken him by the nape of his neck. Her voice seemed to stroke as if searching for the perfect place to clench.
Ussü. My loyal servant. What blasphemy is this you practise in my name? Abandon these false delusions and join me!
He could not speak; was utterly helpless. And she knew it.
You trust too much to my affection and forbearance. It is only …
The voice broke off. He sensed a swirling shift as crushing pressures built around him. He glimpsed something bright amid mist. A blade. A bright blade.
Another is here … An interloper! She is here. This is intolerable! How dare she!
Something snapped round his neck like a vice. Blinking, he forced open his eyes to see that the subject had somehow slipped an arm free of the strapping and was now strangling him with an inhuman strength. Yurgen! Temeth! Where are you!
I will destroy the bitch!
The subject’s head rolled over to face him, the eyes open but empty of life. Something fell free round the neck, a leather strap and pendant. The simple stone bore an engraved image: an open hand. Emblem of the Queen of Dreams! An image flickered in those staring glassy eyes, a presence. And Ussü felt soul-crushing shame.
You have betrayed me, Ussü, another voice whispered to him. The sadness and regret borne in those words brought tears to his eyes. He felt himself fading from consciousness but behind the voice came faintly the rush of running water.
No! This one’s mine!
A blow and the iron band at his neck was yanked away. Someone supporting him. He clasped his throat, gasping for air. Borun, arm round him, sword bared and bloody. Ussü looked down: the woman’s torso, headless.
‘Speak,’ the Moranth commander demanded.
Ussü was massaging his throat. His apprentices all lay fallen round the table as if slain where they stood. Stiffly, he knelt beside Yurgen, turned the youth’s head to peer into his eyes. Not lifeless. Alive. But blank. The mind wiped clean. Perhaps, as they say, Mockra is a child of High Thyr. Perhaps, as they whisper, the Enchantress knows no boundaries. ‘The bridge, Commander,’ he said, still kneeling. ‘I heard … water.’
‘Guards!’ the Moranth bellowed, storming from the tent.
Ussü could not look away from those empty orbs. What was your last sight, Yurgen? Who did this? Was it truly the Enchantress? Perilous indeed is my … research. Yet I am helpless without it. What am I to do? Betrayer to both sides? In the end, is there to be no sanctuary, no refuge, for me?
The first Suth knew of any trouble was a change in tone within the general noise of the Roolian forces. Traffic over the bridge grated to a halt. Then a great many footsteps came thumping over the bed. Along the river’s shores a crowd of soldiers pressed down to the silt and gravel bars. He noted with a sick feeling that they all carried bows.
Then pointing, yells, bows raised, fired. A storm of arrows flew to the tops of the most shoreward piers. ‘We’re spotted, lads and lasses,’ Twofoot called – just to make it official.
No fucking kidding. Suth felt that his backside was now very exposed and very fat.
‘We gonna go for a dive?’ Fish called.
Twofoot frowned a negative. ‘Naw – we’d all just get shot.’
Scraping sounded once more high among the timber bracings and a black-armoured figure appeared, sword out, rope snaking up from its shoulders. Everyone stared, amazed. A Black Moranth?
‘Get the fucker!’ Twofoot bellowed.
Suth launched himself up, only to be yanked backwards by the rope at his waist. He flailed like an upturned beetle, almost falling off the timber. Fish and the others of the 6th made for the Moranth while he, or she, scrambled hunched among the crossbeams for the saboteurs.
Befo
re any of the 6th could close, a crossbow bolt took the Moranth in the chest and it slipped from its perch to fall swinging and spinning from its rope. Lorr raised his crossbow from his shoulder, regarded the emptied weapon, then, with a shrug, dropped it to the milky-blue water below.
‘Ain’t you two finished yet?’ one of the 6th yelled.
‘Shut your Hood-damned mouth,’ Thumbs answered.
Suth slit the rope at his waist, readied his weapon. Arrows pecked at the timbers around them. They were hiding amid the understructure and it was a difficult shot for the archers as they had to aim high to make the distance. ‘Now what?’ he shouted to Twofoot. The 6th’s sergeant ignored him.
Someone was yanking on the Black Moranth’s rope, attempting to raise it. But the body just kept banging upwards into a horizontal beam. After a few goes whoever was trying must’ve given up as the rope suddenly slithered hissing through the maze of timbers and the body plunged to disappear into the Ancy.
‘Boats,’ Fish noted laconically, and he raised his chin upriver.
Suth shifted his seat. Sure enough, a whole flotilla of boats was being readied upriver on both shores. Archers were pouring into them. All my homeland gods damn them! Now what? They were completely trapped! Couldn’t go up. Couldn’t go down. Couldn’t stay. Whose bloody plan was this anyway?
Thumbs swung free of the timber he’d been lying prone upon. A fat sack hung from his waist and a big grin was pasted on his broad face. ‘We’d better—’ An arrow appeared at his side, driven all the way up to the fletching. He grunted, peered at it amazed. ‘Just my friggin’ luck.’
Lorr lunged for him but he let go and fell, looking up at them all, his face a pale oval. He disappeared into the opaque turbulence around the pier’s base.
‘Damn!’ Twofoot snarled. ‘Things are gettin’ discomfortable.’
There’s an understatement. ‘Should we just jump?’ Suth called.
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 153
