‘All right. What was that all about?’ the Seven Cities woman demanded.
‘What?’
The woman reached out as if she would snatch hold of the man’s shirtfront, if he had one to grab. ‘The Hood-damned flower nonsense. I don’t approve of lying to the troops. Even if it’s to a good end.’
Confusion wrinkled the man’s brow and around his eyes and from long association Murk recognized honest puzzlement. ‘She means that fairy tale about the stupid magic flower. Things aren’t that bad yet.’
The puzzlement remained in the mage’s lined brow and his bulging misaligned dark brown eyes as they flicked from Murk to Burastan. The woman kicked the ground with one rotting boot. ‘Look,’ she began, exhaling, ‘I understand. The men and women are starting to wonder whether any of them are going to make it out. But you should’ve cleared it with the captain before you started some damned fool story like that.’ She raised a warning finger. ‘I know this crew. They’ll give you the chance. But when you’re proved wrong – you’re out. Like a pariah dog, you’ll be out.’
The little man’s brows now climbed his lined and seamed forehead in growing comprehension. ‘But it’s true! I think I’ve got a handle on this place. It’s got its own rules. You just have to hunt them out.’
Murk exchanged a frustrated glance with Burastan. ‘So, the flower?’
The crab-like fellow gave a sharp nod. ‘Right. I think I’ve figured somethin’ out. Here, in this jungle, it doesn’t matter what you look like or how you crash about making noise or whatnot. What really matters,’ and he took a deep breath before plunging on any further, ‘what really matters … is what you smell like.’
‘What? Smell?’ Murk blurted out.
Sour flinched, but nodded firmly.
Burastan let out a long breath, obviously disappointed. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to talk to the captain about this.’
Sour raised his chin, defiant. ‘Fine! ’Cause I want to too. I just decided which way we should go.’
Murk wouldn’t meet Burastan’s searching gaze; it was a hard thing to witness. The poor guy. Just has to dig a hole for hisself.
* * *
They found Yusen with group of resting troops, talking. Burastan approached and cleared her throat. Yusen gave her a nod then exchanged a few last words with the soldiers. Straightening, he signed for them to move off.
He stopped next to a fat tree Oroth-en had told them was called a Golden Shower. It was not as broad about at the base as many others, but carried a very wide spread of hanging branches. Murk realized they must be near another village as this giant’s trunk was festooned with faded garlands of flowers, lengths of woven hair, ribbons, and other bits and pieces such as stones and shapes moulded of clay set here and there as votive offerings. What were they worshipping here, he wondered. This particular tree itself? Or was it merely the altar, or representative, of the forest at large?
Yusen, he noted, now wore merely a long gambeson shirt, belted, with trousers tucked into tall moccasins. He was without a helmet over his brush-cut, retreating greying hair. His scalp showed through red and raw beneath, but his eyes glowed just as bright and sharp as ever. Like sapphires, Murk thought them. Cut gemstones.
‘What is it?’ the captain said, crossing his arms. His gaze was steady on Burastan.
She indicated Sour. ‘This one’s laying a line of shit on the troops. He’s taking advantage of their trust of the cadre mages. Handing out flowers and claiming they’re safe if they wear them. Claims he can’t keep.’
The steady gaze shifted to Sour. ‘Is that true, soldier?’
Murk felt for the poor guy but he couldn’t step in. This was a hole his naivety had spilled him into. His partner squirmed and rubbed a hand over his head, his odd eyes seeming to look in two directions at once, but he was nodding firmly. ‘Yes, sir, Cap’n sir. It’s true. You wear that flower and you’re safe from the jungle. I believe that completely.’
Yusen returned his piercing gaze to Burastan. ‘There you are, Lieutenant. The man stands behind his claim. Has it been disproved?’
The woman almost gaped but caught herself. ‘Well. No – that is, no, sir.’ She waved at Sour. ‘But he’s not even cadre! Spite told us she pulled them out of prison! Why should we—’
‘Hey now!’ Sour cut in. He motioned to Murk. ‘We’re cadre! We even served with—’
Murk loudly cleared his throat and Sour clamped his mouth shut, hunching.
Yusen’s glittering gaze shifted between the two of them, settled on Murk. ‘You have something to add, soldier?’
Murk raised his open hands. ‘No sir. Nothing at all.’
The mercenary captain looked as if he was about to press for more, but something stopped him and he drew a heavy breath instead. His sharp gaze moved to the tree and roved among its clutter of offerings. Murk studied the man. Why won’t you press? Ah, because then we’d push back asking about your past, yes? And just what is that past, Captain Yusen? Seven Cities, wasn’t it? Were you a green lieutenant then? Did you side with the damned Insurgency?
Burastan recovered enough to shake her head. ‘Talk. All talk.’ She turned to Yusen. ‘Sir, the men and women don’t deserve this. Order these two to keep to their place.’
‘Lieutenant,’ Yusen said, his eyes still on the many garlands and lengths of string woven from human hair. ‘Might I remind you that we’ve crossed nearly half of Himatan. Been chased by damned Disavowed of the Crimson Guard. Are escorting a fragment of the Crippled God. And we’re still alive?’ He drew a heavy breath. ‘I suggest we listen to our hired mages on these matters. If I don’t miss my guess is they saw action in Genabackis. Fifth or Sixth Army.’ The blue eyes swung to Murk and Sour, and Murk thought them as bright as the deep ice he’d seen in the Northern Range.
‘Genabackis?’ Burastan repeated wonderingly. ‘But that was One Arm…’ She peered at them more closely now, her gaze sceptical. ‘You served with Fist Dujek?’
Murk didn’t answer at first; he thought it irrelevant, but Sour knuckled his brow, saying, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Murk could almost see the speculations now circulating through the woman’s mind: just who else might these two have served beside?
For some reason the old empire carried a lot of weight with this woman for she nodded then, and saluted Yusen, murmuring, ‘Very good, Captain.’
But Murk wasn’t happy: here he’d wanted to learn more about Yusen’s history yet the man had managed to wring theirs out of them instead. Neatly done, that, he had to admit.
Yusen now eyed Sour. Murk thought he read a strange sort of affection in the man’s expression. ‘So, cadre. You have a recommendation?’
Sour straightened, pushed out his chest. ‘Yessir. Scouts report a stream to the southeast. I suggest we march in its bed. That’ll keep the troops out of all these poisonous plants and it’ll disguise our trail.’
‘What about them swarming biting fish?’ Murk objected. ‘They nearly took that trooper’s hand right off! What was his name, anyway?’
‘His name’s Bait now,’ Sour answered. ‘Anyways, they only like the shallows and the shores. We keep to the middle and we’ll be fine.’
Yusen was frowning his consideration, thinking it through. ‘Yet you didn’t like the river…’
Sour nodded eagerly. ‘Yeah. That was cloudy water. Clear water’s fine. You keep away from cloudy water. Ain’t healthy.’
The captain studied Sour for a time longer, his lips pursed. Then he nodded, slowly and thoughtfully. ‘Very good. Lieutenant?’
‘Sir?’
‘We have our marching orders. See to it.’
To her credit, the woman saluted quickly and smartly. ‘Sir.’ Seemed an order was an order, no matter what. She waved for Murk and Sour to follow her. They walked away together.
* * *
Yusen watched them go. Then, once he was alone, he reached into his gambeson, where the loops and horn catches tied the front, and gently drew a small object from under the shirt. It was a
flattened and bruised blue blossom. He held it cradled in the palm of one hand. His gaze went to where the mages and the lieutenant had disappeared among the thick stands of drooping fronds.
He shook his head, snorting lightly. ‘Wondered why he gave me the silly thing…’
* * *
They came to a river and so abrupt was its appearance, so silently did it course, that Ina thought it some sort of a conjuration. She let fall the frayed switch she’d been using to beat a path through the leaves and fronds – some as tall as she – and wiped her hands over the bark of a thick curving root to remove the worst of the sticky sap.
The Enchantress had asked only once why she did not employ her sword to hack her way through the undergrowth. That day she’d been particularly vexed by the hanging lianas, while the dry scimitar-like grasses had cut the back of her hand to bloody ribbons and she had snapped, ‘Why don’t you use your powers to blast us a route?’
T’riss had been quiet after that. Ina mentally castigated herself for her failure of patience and composure – not to mention any possible blasphemy.
Now she faced a river. A wide ribbon of muddy reddish water moving so smoothly it was almost impossible to detect any flow. Her first thought was to throw herself in and luxuriate in the washing away of the layer of sweat-adhered dust and dirt that she could scrape from her arms with a fingernail. In fact, it appeared as if she could jump right in from the undercut slope she stood on overlooking the river’s edge.
A hand took her arm from behind and so startled was she that she reacted automatically: instead of yanking forwards to free herself – as any untrained person would do – she shot her elbow backwards and up, straight towards the throat or face of the attacker.
A meaty crack rewarded her, and the hand slipped from her arm. She spun, blade emerging at the same instant ready to thrust or block, only for it to fall from her hand as she saw the Enchantress lying sprawled unconscious behind her.
‘Good gods!’ she cried. She fell to her knees to scoop the woman up, intending to take her to the river’s edge to resuscitate her. Grunting with the effort – for T’riss was a solid woman – she rose. Then she remembered her blade. How could she abandon her blade?
But the Enchantress was a more pressing matter so she carried her to where she could bull her way through the brush down the slope to the shore. Here she laid her burden in the grass then padded out into the river to wet her robes. She returned to squeeze the cloth over the woman’s face.
T’riss coughed and spluttered, then turned her head aside.
Ina found she could breathe deeply once more as a great pressure eased itself within her chest. Thank the First! To think I’d almost concussed the Queen of Dreams! Yet … how could I have done so?
She watched the woman sit up and press both hands to her head as if testing its soundness, then she went to retrieve her sword. When she returned T’riss was still sitting, but had a wet fold of cloth pressed to her forehead. When Ina went to her knees before her she raised a hand to forestall any protestations.
‘I should have known better than to lay hands on a Seguleh,’ she said.
‘M’lady – I am stricken. Name your punishment.’
T’riss held the cloth to her brow while nodding thoughtfully. ‘Your punishment is to continue to accompany me.’
‘M’lady mocks.’
‘I hope that I do.’
Ina was quiet for a time. Has she foreseen my death?
The Enchantress attempted to rise, unsteadily. Ina offered an arm. The woman straightened carefully. Close now she peered up at Ina’s masked face. ‘You are wondering how it was you could strike me?’
Ina gave a curt answering nod. ‘Yes. I was … startled.’
‘You were startled,’ the woman muttered, rubbing her forehead. ‘Well. I come to Ardata completely unguarded and open. It is the only way. She would not have accepted me otherwise.’
Ina frowned behind her mask. ‘Unguarded?’
‘Ah. I speak of my own powers, of course. I do not know what you would name it. My aspect. My manifestation. My territory. An area of concern that, through general neglect and laziness, has become my responsibility.’
‘I am sorry, m’lady … but you have lost me.’
The Enchantress smiled. ‘Of course. I am thinking aloud – to the jungle. Now,’ and she let go of Ina’s arm, ‘a river. Good. We are moving far too slowly while events elsewhere overtake us. Clearly the best way to move through this region is by water. Let us do so.’
She gestured. Off through the surrounding bush there came a noise as of branches snapping, or dragging, brushing against one another in a rising storm of noise. Bits and pieces of driftwood and fallen branches cast up along the shore came sliding towards them. They ranged in size from sticks and branches all the way up to medium-sized logs. They came grating and slithering together into a heap. They twined, moulded and flattened, and before Ina’s amazed vision there took form a long slim open hull of woven wood.
‘I thought you said you had abandoned your powers,’ Ina said, without thinking.
‘I did not say I had abandoned them,’ the Enchantress objected, a touch impatient. ‘I only said that I was unguarded.’
She waved to invite Ina to go first. Still rather dazed by the demonstration, Ina awkwardly stepped on to the slim craft and edged forward towards the bow. Her patron took the stern. Then the Queen of Dreams gently pushed her hands forward, as if parting a cloth, and the vessel slid off the mud into the current. She directed it downstream. The craft sliced through the water at what to Ina was a rather alarming rate. But the Enchantress had said they’d been making slow progress and that events were moving ahead of them; the Queen of Dreams, it seemed, was in a hurry.
* * *
They raced for days and nights continuously along the river. Ina slept through the nights while the Enchantress appeared to need no rest. This amused Ina – the Queen of Dreams never slept. It seemed somehow appropriate. When she hungered, Ina had a small nibble from the bag of dried stores that remained. Her lifelong training in privation and restraint served her well here. Water was their sole problem. The Enchantress forbade her to touch the river. Occasionally they passed small clear rivulets draining into the main channel. The Enchantress would direct the craft to the shore here and Ina would collect what she could in the one waterskin that had yet to rot away.
Now that they were without the constant shade from the jungle’s canopy the new problem Ina had to deal with was sunstroke. During the day no cloud cover softened the sun’s driving rays. She draped her robes over her like a blanket but to begin with neglected her head, and now peeling burnt skin came off in her nails when she probed her scalp.
So great was their speed that when they swept round a river bend they sometimes startled flocks of tall wading birds that swept skyward in great swaths of white and brilliant yellow. The gangly birds cawed their raucous complaints and found temporary perches in the trees along the shore until the branches bowed down almost to the murky surface of the water, festooned with what resembled tall slim flowers.
Ina spent much of her time treating her blade against the constant bite of the humidity. Long ago the Seguleh smiths had found that adding charcoal to their furnaces yielded an iron that was superior in flexibility, while also being particularly resistant to corrosion. Yet it remained an uncertain process and no blade was perfectly impervious. She had run out of the plant oils she usually carried and was now reduced to smearing her own skin’s sweat and secretions on to the blade, which, though harmful, were better than nothing.
They raced on, careering round the twisting bends. The river appeared to be widening as they went, gathering tributaries and creeks at every snaking curve.
Then one day Ina was adjusting the cloth of the robe draped over her head when something came screaming down from the sky above. She had one stunning glimpse of a great draconic shape, golden-red, claws extended, stooping, snarling teeth agape, before those claws clamped on t
o the craft and she was plunged beneath the clouded ochre-hued water.
She came up, gasping and thrashing, yet gripping the hilt of her sheathed sword to make certain it was safe. She swam one-handed for shore. Here she found a woman in nothing more than a ragged loincloth standing over her mistress. She drew immediately.
‘Stand aside.’
The woman turned on her and Ina was shaken to see that her eyes churned like twin furnaces of molten gold. ‘And what is this?’ she asked. ‘A Seguleh?’ She pointed to Ina’s face. ‘Your mask is sorely in need of repainting.’
‘Please let us go,’ the Enchantress said from where she lay sodden and muddy on the shore. ‘We are no threat to you.’
‘I will be the judge of that,’ the woman answered, though she did seem to relax somewhat, lowering her arms. ‘Just what are you then?’
The Enchantress shrugged. She wiped her mouth, leaving a smear of blood-red mud across her face. ‘I am a sorceress,’ she said. ‘Out of Tali. Quon Tali.’
‘I know Tali,’ the woman snarled impatiently. ‘More to the point – what are you doing here?’
Again an easy shrug from the Enchantress. ‘The power and wisdom of the Queen of Witches is legendary. I would seek her out.’
The woman actually laughed aloud at that. It was a very cruel and scornful laugh. ‘For a sorceress, your foresight is remarkably poor.’
‘And you?’ the Enchantress challenged, quite unintimidated. ‘Why attack us?’
The woman snarled anew. Her hands worked as if eager to tear and rend. ‘That is my business.’
‘It would seem you have made it our business as well. Spite, daughter of Draconus, sister to—’
The woman threw a hand up. ‘Not that name! If you wish to live.’
The Enchantress inclined her head, acquiescing.
Spite seemed to think on the Enchantress’s words, for she waved a hand dismissively. ‘If you must know … I am seeking something. Something stolen. You must have a presence, sorceress, for I sensed you and I thought I glimpsed … well, I was mistaken.’ She turned and walked off, then stopped, facing them once more. ‘Take my advice, sorceress. Go back home. Do not seek out Ardata. Only death resides in Jakal Viharn.’
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 318
