The two posted guards marched down the line to Shell. While one watched, hand on swordgrip, the other struck her from the chain. This one then freed the older Malazan soldier as well, and linked her and him together.
‘She needs time to heal,’ Jemain told them. ‘Her hands—’
The nearest Stormguard struck him a blow that sent him tumbling. Shell lashed out but the Chosen slipped the blow, drawing his weapon to strike her in the gut with the pommel. She grunted without falling and the man fell back one step, his eyes widening behind the narrow vision slit. The old Malazan veteran threw an arm across Shell to draw her back as well.
She knocked his arm aside. ‘Don’t you dare touch me, Malazan scum.’
The veteran let his arm fall to look her up and down, wonder on his face. ‘Togg take me …’ he breathed. The trustee, Jemain, also stared up at her – he looked about to say something. The Stormguard drew his blade, gestured to the exit.
Glaring her fury, Shell gave the faintest of nods. She edged her way through the narrow chamber. The eyes of all those chained along both walls watched her pass. As she came to Jemain he raised an arm and she helped him up. Hugging her close, he whispered, ‘Do you know Bars?’ Then he gasped as her grip tightened convulsively.
‘Where is he?’ she grated.
‘I know.’
‘Come to me.’
‘Get a move on,’ the Stormguard ordered.
Pulling away, he murmured, ‘I’ll try.’
She let him go, forcing her burning hands to open, then shuffled on. The Malazan veteran, she noted, also gave the trustee a long hard stare as he passed.
So this Jemain knew Bars. But then, here on the wall, who did not? Perhaps it was nothing. But the Malazan appeared close to guessing her identity as well. And she was now paired with him. Well, as before … she may be better off alone …
BOOK III
And All the Shores Between
He stands watching the Chosen on the wall
Gripping the stone in both hands
Staring down into the blur of sickle blades,
Clouds of spray and snow blow behind
And all to the horizon, to the curve
Of wall that marks the shore,
Nothing but men swinging.
When the sea fills the gap
His cousins raise their spears.
For twelve hours the sun strives
And the reaper reaps.
The boy stares down into that sweep
Of hot oiled blade and tempered ice,
And I hope he will not fall.
Epic lay, The Wall
Derak Ranathaj
CHAPTER IX
Looking back
is a flame in the eyes.
Best not to linger like flies
on the refuse we have made.
No, I know nothing of what came before.
Nor do I care.
It is much easier to worship the future
that will never come.
Occasional Rhymes
Jhen Karen’ul of Stygg
BAKUNE SAT IN THE HIGH CHAIR OF THE BANITH COURTS CIVIL AND listened to the advocate for the aggrieved finish his argument. It was all he could do to force himself to pay attention. Outside, an occupying army patrolled the streets and blockaded the harbour, while here within these walls advocates and agents connived and conspired with as much unashamed greed as before.
Something within the Assessor wanted to scream. Under his robes he pinched his fingers into his palms to force himself to follow the advocate’s unlikely, and contrived, line of reasoning. After the summing up Bakune quickly hammered his desk. ‘Advocate, I see no clear and compelling evidence here to support your claims of collaboration and war profiteering.’
The advocate rose anew, swept his robes back from his arms. ‘Assessor … it is clear from this merchant’s sale of goods to the enemy …’
‘Sir, if I were to prosecute every merchant who has dealt with these Moranth then the Carceral Quarters would be full to bursting. That alone is no evidence of collusion or traitorous behaviour as your client contends. Meanwhile the accused, your client’s main rival in the timber concession, I understand, suffers under this cloud of doubt, his reputation stained, his business eviscerated. I suggest you work towards assembling compelling and material evidence to support your charges. Until then – case dismissed.’ Bakune hammered the desk again, and the foremost of the crowd jamming the court rose, half of them relieved, the other half muttering their dissatisfaction.
The Assessor turned to the next packet of documents, but somehow he could not muster the energy to face them. He hammered the desk a third time. ‘Court closed for the morning.’
An eruption of protest, shouting, papers waved in fists, the court bailiffs struggling to hold back the mob. Bakune swept out of the court; he simply no longer gave a damn. Where were these urgent calls to action, the public outrage, when youths were disappearing from the streets? He frankly had no sympathy for this sudden new passion for litigation. Our country is invaded by a foreign power, alien troops walk our streets, and our reaction? We attempt to sue them and each other. Bakune was ashamed that his countrymen would see in all this nothing more than an opportunity to make a quick profit.
He gathered up a few files then headed out to return to his offices. His guards took up positions around him – a precaution pressed upon him by Hyuke, now Captain Hyuke of the City Watch. The surviving members of the Lady’s priesthood had damned him for meeting with the enemy – as if they could just ignore them and hope they’d go away.
It was so frustrating he was tempted to walk away. Damn them all for their sudden newfound concern for ‘justice’ and the self-righteous aggrieved umbrage only the selfish can muster. At least no new murder following the characteristics of all those that had come before had yet surfaced. Certainly there had been killings: drunken stabbings, crimes of passion, spousal murders – oddly enough from those most vocally concerned with ‘traditional Roolian values’, it seemed. But no bodies of youths turning up in the tide. For that Bakune was grateful, and chose to take some small measure of credit. He’d even had a word with Boneyman, and Soon, the young servant girl, now worked as an apprentice cook in the kitchens.
He found Hyuke awaiting him outside his office, looking no different from before with his ridiculous fat moustache and lazy manner. Only his uniform had changed; Bakune did not think much of the epaulettes. He opened the door and waved him in. ‘What is it?’
The new Watch captain slumped in a chair, his eyes sleepy. ‘Them Blues want a warehouse and grounds to set up quarters on the waterfront. No one’s volunteering.’
‘Surely that’s a matter for the Lord Mayor’s office.’
A tired nod. ‘True enough. Except the Lord Mayor’s scarpered.’
‘What?’
‘Last night. Run off. City treasury’s empty too.’
‘You’re implying a connection?’
The man rolled his eyes. ‘What’re we gonna do?’
‘What do you mean “we”? The Vice-Mayor must step in.’
A shake of the head.
‘The Lieutenant-Mayor?’
A disappointed pursing of the lips.
‘The city treasurer?’
‘Arrested. A person of interest.’
‘Ah. That leaves … ?’
‘You.’
‘Me? Lady forfend, no.’
‘Sorry, but we’ve ’bout run out of all other contenders. The Abbot’s dead, the Lord Mayor’s gone. That leaves you. Congratulations – this mess is yours.’
Bastard Mayor Gorlings. Never did like the pompous ass. Now he’s run off and left me to clean up. And I don’t want any of it. Bakune eyed his Watch captain. At least the fellow seemed willing to do whatever he told him. He supposed it was time one of the deputy assessors sat the bench. ‘Confiscate the necessary property. Tell them they’ll be paid in script.’
Hyuke’s long face lit up in a grin and he stroked his moustache. ‘That I li
ke to hear.’ He stood. ‘They’ll hate you.’
‘They’ll hate me anyway.’
‘That they will.’ The man gave a brief bow. ‘Lord Mayor.’
Late that night as he was walking home, he was struck once more by how quiet the city was. The seemingly endless tide of pilgrims had ebbed. Countless citizens had fled the coast for the dubious safety of the inland towns. The capital, Paliss, was apparently choked with refugees. And the Overlord? Strange rumours circulated concerning him and his seeming non-response to this invasion.
Bakune’s housekeeper opened the door for him, curtsying – this too was new. Everyone treated him with either far more respect or far more hostility, depending upon where their particular interests happened to lie. His guards took up positions before his door. His cook was in the kitchen preparing an evening meal – another new addition. He hung his cloak then poured a drink. Entering his parlour he found the priest, Ipshank, sitting in his most comfortable chair.
Bakune nodded and sat, reminding himself to have a word with the housekeeper, who, apparently, was a convert to this priest’s strange new religion.
‘Nice place,’ the priest said.
‘A previous visitor called it wretchedly small.’
‘How our perceptions can change.’
‘Ipshank … perhaps you shouldn’t …’
‘No one knows I’m here.’
Bakune rubbed his pained brow. ‘It’s just that I’m already being labelled a traitor …’
The priest sat forward. The beast tattoos on his face darkened in the dim light. ‘I’m here to let you know things are going to get much worse.’
‘Wonderful.’
‘You’ve heard the rumours regarding our Overlord, Yeull? The Roolian Army?’
‘Which? I’ve heard twenty contrary stories.’
The man sat back. ‘Well, there’s to be no counter-offensive. No effort to free Banith.’
Bakune nodded. Already he’d come to that reluctant conclusion. It had been more than ten days and still no Roolian forces had arrived. What’s more, he’d heard some very alarming rumours regarding the disposition of that army. He sipped his liqueur. ‘I’d heard a rumour that Paliss was being abandoned.’
The priest nodded. ‘The official word is that the Overlord will hold the north then retake the south.’
‘What do you think?’
The man didn’t answer for a time. He looked down as if studying his wide spade-like hands. ‘I was going to leave, you know. Days ago.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I said it was time I confronted the Lady … and I was on my way.’
‘And something stopped you.’
‘Yes. One of those rumours. One that made too much sense.’
Bakune lifted his glass then stopped himself and set it down. He didn’t know if he wanted to hear anything that could possibly trouble this man. ‘Must I hear this?’
‘Yes. Bakune, I believe that the Malazans … Greymane … is coming here.’
Bakune waved away the possibility. ‘That’s absurd. He’ll march on Paliss, of course.’
The priest was shaking his head. Light from the fire gleamed from his bald pate. ‘No. This is his fleet. It’s awaiting him.’
‘Awaiting him? To take him where? They’ve only just got here! No, once he is close the Moranth troops will disembark and join him to march on Paliss. And if he is victorious, we will have a new overlord.’ Bakune shrugged his helplessness. ‘Simple as that.’
The priest stood. ‘No. It’s not so simple. Chaotic times are coming, Bakune. It may be that there will be no overlord. Then there will be a need for people who can see ahead. Think on that. That is all I suggest.’ He peered down at Bakune. ‘I do not know if we will see each other again. But if not – best of luck, and my blessing.’ He set a hand on Bakune’s shoulder. ‘I’ll see myself out the back.’
Long after the man had gone Bakune sat on into the night. The fire died away to embers. He reached out and swallowed the rest of his liqueur. He’d never been much of a religious man though he’d attended services all his life – as a matter of course as a civic official. Strangely enough, only now did he have the feeling of having been in the presence of a true priest, one less concerned with the welfare of the gods than with the real welfare of the people. It was a strange, discomforting sensation that made him feel that somehow he too ought to be concerned. All his adult life he’d lived under the Malazan yoke. He couldn’t imagine how things would be otherwise.
Yet it was worth thinking about, as the man said. For what if in the course of this coming confrontation no clear victor arose? Or what if Yeull died and the Malazan forces were crippled? What then? Regional warlords would arise. Disintegration of the state. Chaos. Who would guard the interests of Banith?
Well, he supposed that would be him.
Kiska was surprised to find this nether-Chaos Realm flush with life. Lizard-like things scuttled from their path to disappear amid the broken rock and shifting sands of the region. Tough thorny bushes choked depressions. Even things you might call blind albino fish swam in shallow rock pools. She’d wondered what the white hound had been surviving on. Now she believed she had her answer. She also thought the prospect of fish would excite the priest, Warran, but the man showed no interest. ‘Too small,’ he’d complained. This did not stop him from eating his share, though, after Jheval filleted a few. Their tiny bat-guide led them on, apparently tireless, and though their ultimate goal was obvious it led them true, avoiding defiles, gorges and a swampy lowland Kiska was glad to skirt.
Ever present in the sky loomed their destination, the immense bruise, or blotch, of the Whorl. At night it took the appearance of a circle of pitch black surrounded by a gyre of brilliance as curtains of light rippled and swirled. ‘The energy of destruction,’ the priest called the light.
The only strange or disturbing event that occurred for some time concerned Warran. During the relative gloom of one night Kiska got up to relieve her bladder and in doing so she passed behind the priest where he sat cross-legged facing the Whorl.
For an instant it seemed to Kiska that she could see the brilliance of the stars and the rippling banners of energy through the body of the priest. As if he were translucent, or wasn’t really there at all. She blinked, pausing, and stared again, but the impression was gone and the man was glaring over his shoulder.
‘I’m trying to meditate – if you don’t mind!’
And she’d retreated, apologizing. But the vision would not leave her and she found herself watching him much more closely than she had before.
Then, after an unknowable passage of time, a sandstorm blew in upon them. It came from ahead, the direction of the Whorl, a great wall of obscuring sand or dust boiling over the land towards them. First, the ravens, which had been hopping amid the rocks – searching for insects, Kiska wondered – let out great warning caws and swept up into the air. Jheval pointed to a clump of boulders and they ran to hunch in its lee. Kiska yelped as something latched itself on to her, but it was their guide, returned to wriggle under her cloak.
Warran straightened then, his brows rising in amazement. ‘This is no storm.’
‘Of course it is,’ Jheval snapped from behind his scarf. ‘Now get down!’
The priest raised a warning hand to Jheval. ‘No. This is something much worse. Do not move.’ And he stepped out into the open.
‘Fool! Come back!’ Jheval moved to follow but Kiska stopped him.
‘Wait. Perhaps he knows what he’s doing.’ She had time for one glance around for the hound – had it found cover? – before the cloud engulfed them. The diffuse light of the day darkened beyond the murkiness of night. The noise was almost too loud to hear: it hammered her ears with its reverberation. Something bit her hand – a sharp nip – and she looked down to see some sort of fly feeding upon her. She squashed it. Jheval pressed his head to hers, shouting: ‘Bloodflies! Flesh-eating flies! They’ll flense the meat from our bones! Do something!’
/>
But Kiska flinched away. She cuffed at her head where they crawled in her hair. She thumped her armour where they’d wormed their way beneath. The bites were an agony; they dotted her hands like a pox. When a nip lanced far within her ear she screamed, her howl inaudible even to her, and fell curling into a fetal ball.
She didn’t think she’d passed out but slowly she became aware that the ocean of pain was diminishing, fading to a lingering searing agony that no longer threatened to push her into unconsciousness. She rose and wiped her face, feeling a warm smear – her forearm was sheathed in fresh wet blood. Peering around through narrowed eyes she saw that the cloud of flies had receded. It circled them now at a distance: a churning wall of a million ravenous mouths.
The priest was there and he passed her a cloth. She took it to dab at her face and arms, wincing as the weave rubbed the raw wounds. Jheval rose, hissing and groaning. If she looked anything like him right now she was a mess: his face ran with blood, as did his hands and forearms.
She saw that not one wound scarred Warran. ‘You’re not bitten!’ Damn the man! How was it he escaped? ‘What’s going on?’
‘We had something of a negotiation, he and I.’
‘He?’
Warran held up his opened hands. ‘Well … it.’
‘What is … it?’
‘It is D’ivers. It appears to have haunted these shores of Chaos for some time. It has grown quite powerful, as you see.’
‘Negotiation, you said?’ asked Jheval, his voice clenched with pain.
‘It flees the Whorl,’ Warran explained. Raising his voice, he called: ‘Is that not so?’
As the horde circled, hissing and thrumming, the massed whisperings of the millions of wings changed timbre. The tone rose and fell and incredibly Kiska found she could understand:
The Hole hungers more than I …
‘What name should I call you?’ Warran asked.
We do not remember such things. We are many. No one name can encompass us.
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 169
