Assail

CHAPTER II

Her life, she decided, has been nothing more than a string of failures. Wretched failures. One piled on to the other. And all after so many had sacrificed so much to bring her into her birthright; her mother, the Rhivi tribes, Malazan marines, citizens of Darujhistan — honourable and not so honourable — had striven heroically to help her become what she was fated to become: Silverfox, Summoner to the ancient undying self-accursed T’lan Imass.

Her mother had given up her own life to nourish her. The Rhivi had endured privation and the loss of many in their migrations; one of the most beloved Malazan officers had given his life championing her; and now, after she had been named the T’lan Imass Summoner come again, it was the Imass themselves who threatened to destroy her.

She had been born to unite the many T’lan Imass clans in one gathering dedicated to the dismissal of the Tellann ritual that bound them through life and death to their relentless pursuit of the Jaghut. A war that had dissolved into irrelevance countless millennia ago as that alien race faded away into isolated individuals who retained no interest in Imass or human affairs.

Yet not all the Imass considered the war over. Here in Assail there remained one last vestige of that conflict. A soul-wrenching legacy that threatened even her sympathies for these ancient people.

Now she spent her days and nights keeping watch on the coast where the Warren, or Realm, of Tellann tended to draw those Imass guided by this lingering presence. Here they found her, and something else. Something none of them had ever anticipated, nor even imagined.

When she was at her very lowest Pran Chole would come to spend time with her — or perhaps to watch over her should she consider some sort of sudden drastic action to end her misery. She had yet to decide whether his silent company was a consolation or an aggravation. In the past, he’d once offered himself up as the defenceless target and recipient of her anger, her fury, and her outrage at the injustice of her fate. And she had beaten upon him the way a smith punishes his anvil. Yet she’d seen since how he had done it as a gift to her, out of love. That she should turn her fury upon him rather than herself.

Now she was not certain what her feelings were for the ancient Bonecaster — the closest thing to a father she could claim to have had. When she was at her lowest he could somehow sense it. He would come to her tent among the dunes, entering just as any living being would through the loose front flap, ducking his head bearing its broken-antlered headdress, to stand silent and watchful. Offering the last thing that remained to him to try to ease her mind: his company.

Sometimes, on nights like these, when the wind howled off the coast and the waves pummelled the beach as if meaning to wash it from existence utterly, she would sit cross-legged next to her small fire while her hide tent shuddered and jerked about her, and he would come to stand just inside the opening as if uncertain of his welcome. She was not uncomfortable in his presence; and indeed, his attention wasn’t upon her at all. The dark empty pits of his sockets gazed steadily aside, towards the coast, ever sensing for newcomers.

Of course he need not have bothered with this awkward gesture of companionship. She of all people, Silverfox, was never alone. It was what she was. How she had been created. And she considered it her curse. Four entities resided within her. Pran Chole himself, among others, had pulled the four together to create what he hoped would become the first living T’lan Imass Bonecaster and Summoner in many millennia. And he had succeeded. Powerful beings, dead and dying, had been lashed to her soul as if by bloody sinew and dried roots: Tattersail, powerful Malazan cadre mage, indeed potent enough to be considered a potential High Mage; Bellurdan, a Thelomen giant in life and huge in soul in death; and most closed to her of all, Nightchill, a sorceress of the Malazan Empire. In life, for a time, they had served Kellanved, the first emperor. But in death they agreed to serve the child Silverfox — destined to release the T’lan Imass from their self-inflicted bondage.

And when she was at her very nadir, as on this night, she could not help but note her hands as she prodded the dying embers of the fire; their wasted bird-like lines, all sinew and bone, the skin blotched by age-spots. Not the hands of the youth she was — at least in years. By the number of seasons she had seen she should be an adolescent. Yet her purpose, what she was formed to do, arrived early. And so was she quickened to meet it. The cost had been terrible, and not just to her. The need had consumed her mother first. It had taken the many potential decades of her life. And now it was overwhelming hers.

She flexed her hands to warm them then returned to stirring the embers with a stick of broken brittle driftwood. All this Pran Chole witnessed. The low fire cast a bronze glow across his dry withered face, though the empty sockets of his eyes remained hidden in darkness beneath his headdress of weathered, broken antlers. How many such scenes had this Imass seen? The fire’s flush suited him, she decided.

Her thoughts turned then to another Imass, one who had shared many similar nights across the sea in Genabackis, and had become what Silverfox considered the closest thing to a friend among them: Lanas Tog of the Kerluhm T’lan Imass. The warrior who came bearing the message of war in Assail.

She sighed then, examining her limp useless hands, and Pran Chole, who knew her so well, broke his silence. His voice was the brushing of sand across the dunes: ‘She did what she thought she had to do, child.’

That she should be so transparent irked her and she growled, ‘She should not have lied.’

‘She did not lie. You could say she told a half-truth. What she imagined would bring us to this land.’

‘She must’ve known we would not join her.’

The ancient undying warrior offered the answer of his accumulated millennia of wisdom: he lifted his bony shoulders in a small shrug. ‘She guessed some would.’

Silverfox felt a fury mounting at that betrayal. Within her, the mountain-shaking ire of Bellurdan bellowed anew at those who had defied her command, while an icy vow from Nightchill whispered: never forget nor forgive. Yet she and Tattersail still could not believe that there would be those who would put their ancient enmity first — even after the lessons of Genabackis and the benediction of the Redeemer who had granted the T’lan Imass the possibility for hope once more. This clinging to the past troubled her young soul the most. ‘It is so utterly needless,’ she murmured, watching the embers burn themselves out.

Pran Chole did not answer. After a moment she glanced up to see that she was alone.

Certainty chilled her spine then. Gods, no. Not again. I can’t go. Can’t bear to witness it all again. It tore her apart to see it. But she should; if her words could sway just one …

She threw open the loose hide flap and ran for the breakers crashing beyond the intervening high dunes.

She found Pran Chole standing knee high in the foaming surf, facing the empty ocean. ‘Who comes!’ she shouted over the wind and the surge of waves.

‘I know not,’ he answered, as phlegmatic as ever.

She scanned the water, dark and webbed beneath the chill stars and passing courses of clouds. Her hides, sodden from her thighs, pulled upon her, heavy and clinging. Then darker shapes came emerging from the trough and fall of the waves: ravaged skulls, broken caps of bone and cured leather; the jagged stone tips of spears; the humped shoulders of animal hides. T’lan Imass strode forward from the surf, some dozen or more.

‘They are of the Kerluhm,’ Pran Chole murmured tonelessly. He pushed into the waves.

Though she was dreading it, the news still made her clench her fists and press one to her breast. Gods, no! More of them. Will they not stop coming? Why not others?

Pran Chole raised a hand of bone and cured leathery skin. ‘Greetings, Kerluhm,’ he called. ‘I am Pran Chole of the Kron. We honour you.’

‘I am Othut K’ho,’ one answered. ‘We honour the Kron.’ A ragged cape of sewn animal skins hung from this one’s bare bone shoulders. He turned to Silverfox and lowered himself to one knee in the surf. The others of his band joined him. ‘Summoner,’ he murmured as softly as Pran. ‘We honour you as well.’

She raised a hand for pause. Now, she knew, she had to command when her every instinct urged her to plead. ‘My thanks, Othut. If you honour me I must ask you agree to forestall any action until I have explained fully.’

His battered mien wrinkled up even more as his mostly fleshless brow crinkled. ‘Explain?’ he breathed. His empty sockets edged to the north and he murmured, ‘We are newly reawakened to the world, true. We were caught crossing the Agadal and the ice took us. It seems we slept for ages. And while we slumbered, interned, that river of ice carried us far afield indeed. I awoke on the shore of an unknown sea and freed what companions I could find. Then we heard the Call …’

‘Listen to me, Othut,’ she interjected, speaking with all her power over the roar of the surf. ‘If you honour me you must follow my command. And I command an end to the war, Othut. It is over. No more hostilities. We gather here and I will release you all. Is this understood, Othut? Are you listening?’

The Kerluhm’s rotted head, its tannin-stained skull peeking from behind the mummified flesh, had edged aside to Pran, and it raised a bone-thin arm to point to the north. ‘Is what I sense true?’ it asked, and Silverfox heard the familiar stunned amazement in his words.

Pran answered in a slow firm nod. ‘It is so. And we of the Kron name them beyond the boundary of the Ritual.’

Silverfox stood frozen, fists clenched at her sides, fairly quivering in dread. Now would come the answer, she knew. The T’lan did not dissemble. Nor hide their intent. It would happen now.

‘We Kerluhm,’ Othet answered, his voice even more raw and jagged, ‘do not.’

‘No!’ she cried once more — as she always did — but to no effect. The waves boiled about her as Kron warriors surged through the surface and they and the Kerluhm locked blades that clashed and grated. Pran shifted to stand protectively before her, though never in all the battles played out here on these beaches did one Imass ever move to threaten her.

She fell to her knees, the water at her breast, her face in her hands. Failure! Utter wretched failure once more! The cold waves splashed over her. The surge of bodies fighting around her died away.

‘It is over,’ Pran Chole said unnecessarily. ‘They have fled. My warriors pursue.’

She raised her face. Her tears felt hot on her chilled wet cheeks. ‘Your numbers are diminishing, Pran. Some time soon too many will arrive and you will be overrun. What then?’ she yelled. ‘What then!’

‘You will not be harmed.’

She lunged to her feet. Her wet hides slapped about her, almost pulling her over. She threw up a hand as if to strike his stone-hard face. ‘I do not speak of myself!’ She jabbed a finger to the north. ‘I speak of them! Them! What will happen to all those thousands … so many. A crime beyond imagining, Pran! And you Imass the perpetrators. Mass murderers …’ The enormity of it made her dizzy and she could not continue.

‘Omtose Phellack remains active in the north. It protects them yet.

‘For how long!’ she threw back at him. ‘It is weakening. You know this! In the little time we’ve been here I have felt it weakening.’

To this Pran could only offer the wordless gesture of those who live long enough in the indifferent world: the subtle lift of the shoulders that says, who is to know?

* * *

Fisher Kel Tath found the Bone Peninsula much the same as when he’d left it so very long ago. Which is to say: insular, murderous, and savage. The pocket city-states still jostled and warred amongst themselves seeking supremacy. And each, in its turn, succeeded in grasping a taste of said supremacy only to be dragged down eventually by some new alliance of their neighbours, said alliance then flying apart in the inevitable betrayals and killings. And so it went. On and on. Endlessly repeating itself and none apparently learning a thing from it. Fisher was even more disheartened and disgusted than when he’d fled it all originally.

Yet he’d returned. Drawn not by the steep inlets and forested mountain slopes that so figured in his youth, but by hints from readings in the divinatory Dragons deck, by whispered rumours, and by plain gut instincts that told him that things were about to change here in the lands of Assail, so very ancient and clinging to the old ways of family, clan and blood-feud.

He lingered in Holly, at the top of the mountainous peninsula. It was one of the more northerly of the coastal kingdoms. They were named kingdoms here along the coast, though in any other region they would rate as little more than baronies, or minor city-states. He lingered because when he arrived he found himself anticipated by a horde of foreigners all come ashore from the outland vessels now crowding the tiny fishing harbour of this modest fortress and town.

It seemed that for all his seeking out of subtle readers of the deck, paying of noted prophets, and even time spent insinuating himself into the good graces of a certain priestess of the Queen of Dreams for hints of future events, he had failed to discover the news that was clearly common knowledge: that streams bedded in gold had been discovered in northern Assail lands.

He did not know whether to consider it a personal failing, or a sad comment on the skills of said clairvoyants. In any case, he now had a seat in a tavern quite taken over by foreigners — and he thought by everyone to be among them — while strategy was being hammered out around the captain’s table.

It was a raucous affair of banged fists, yelled insults, and daggers half drawn while their owners, hired swords, and plain men-at-arms watched one another suspiciously.

‘We must all march together overland.’ This was Marshal Teal of Lether, tall, pole-slim and sour-faced, who possessed the largest force: a pocket army of forty armed fortune-hunters, all probable ex-soldiers. He called himself ‘Marshal’, though Fisher couldn’t recall such a rank associated with the Letherii military.

‘Overland is too slow!’ This from Enguf, called the Broad, a man who couldn’t be more opposite to the pale-lipped Letherii commander: a squat, flame-haired south Genabackan pirate who’d landed with a crew of twenty armed, lean and hungry swordsmen. ‘Those who continue on to the inland sea will take everything!’

‘We have no time for such games,’ cut in the third commander at the table, a Malazan aristocrat, Malle of Gris. She was an older woman, wiry, in thick layered finery of the sort that was fashionable in Unta two decades ago. Thick silver wristlets gleamed at her wrists like manacles, and kohl lined her eyes giving her something of the look of an owl. ‘That you landed here betrays your intent clearly.’

‘And that is?’ Enguf answered, not the least intimidated by the woman’s haughty manner.

She dismissed him with a wave of a skinny hand. ‘We three must have seen maps or heard accounts that hint of the dangers all along the inland sea. The Sea of Dread, many style it. The Anguish Coast. Are we three not betting that few of these vessels will reach the inland Sea of Gold? Better to cut across the top of the peninsula, neh? Though the mountain passes of the Bone range no doubt hold their own dangers.’

‘Quite so, Malle,’ put in Marshal Teal. ‘We will march for the top of the Demon Narrows. To a settlement named Desolation Bay.’

‘Hardly encouraging, that,’ muttered Enguf.

‘Not to worry,’ said Malle. Her lips thinned into a humourless predatory smile. ‘I believe that to be a description of what awaits those foolish enough to attempt the narrows.’

‘We are resolved then?’ enquired Teal. He signed to his second, who drew a sheet of parchment from a pouch. ‘We the undersigned,’ he began, dictating, ‘agree to equal shares of all profits accruing, after shared expenses, from our venture in gathering mineral resources from the Salt range.’ When his aide had finished, he signed the document then slid it and the quill across to Malle, who also signed. She offered it to Enguf, who scowled at the sheet and the other two commanders.

‘Must I?’ he growled distastefully.

‘Mercantile contracts must be signed and witnessed,’ insisted Teal.

Enguf snatched up a candle and tilted it over the document. ‘All this paper waving and scratching is nothing more than hollow mummery. What matters is a man or a woman’s word.’

‘Nevertheless …’ Malle murmured.

Wax dripped to the page and Enguf pressed a ring into the cooling droplet. He pushed the sheet to Teal. ‘Done. Meaningless charade though it is.’

‘In a barbaric country perhaps,’ allowed Teal. His second rolled the document and slipped it away. ‘But in Lether the rule of law is respected.’

Enguf stroked his thick russet beard. ‘Oh yes. I forgot that being civilized means constructing laws that favour yourself while at the same time disadvantaging everyone else.’

Teal offered a bloodless smile. ‘My friend, if in some manner you find yourself disadvantaged by the law then by definition you must be a criminal.’

‘You take my point exactly.’

Malle threw up a hand for silence. ‘We are outside our purview. I suggest we ready for the morrow.’

Teal nodded his assent. ‘Of course. My thanks, Malle of Gris.’

‘What?’ Enguf objected, quite disbelieving. ‘Not one drink to our partnership? Come now, we must drink. All mercantile agreements must be sealed by a toast.’

Teal’s mouth tightened even more as his jaws clenched.

‘If we must,’ said Malle. ‘Myself, I favour liqueurs. Wormwood, or dhenrabi blood, preferably.’

Enguf raised his brows, impressed. ‘Well — I doubt we’ll find such rare delicacies here. But we can only try.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Innkeep? Hello? Demons and gods, has the man fled?’ He gestured to his crew and two men got to their feet and ambled to the rear, where, Fisher imagined, the man was probably cowering, overcome by this crowd of foreigners who had taken over his business.

Fisher noted a lad lingering about the back door. He was biting his lip and shifting his weight from foot to foot, obviously anxious. He crossed to him. ‘Is something wrong, lad?’

The boy jumped, rather surprised. ‘You don’t talk funny.’

Fisher cursed his mistake, muttered, ‘I’ve travelled a lot. So, what’s troubling you?’

‘Father sent me to give a message — but I don’t know who to talk to.’

‘Can you tell it to me? I’ll pass it along.’

The boy brightened; clearly this was what he’d hoped to hear. He gestured to the north. ‘We found another of you foreigners washed up on the shore. We brought him here but don’t know what to do with him. The Countess’s men won’t take him.’

Iren, Countess of Holly. And north of here was a good part of the Wreckers’ Coast. The gods alone knew how many of the ships making for this region had their bottoms ripped out along that length of treacherous rocks and shoals. To its inhabitants anyone not local was free game to rob and murder. It was, in point of fact, the only industry they had. ‘Why bring him here?’ Fisher asked, now wondering why the lad’s father hadn’t robbed this fellow and pushed him under as he had probably done countless times before.

The boy now got a strange look in his eyes, wary, and touched with fear. ‘He’s a strange one, sir.’

A strange one? ‘Well, let’s take a look.’

The lad bobbed his head, grateful and relieved. He motioned to the rear. ‘We’d best go this way.’

‘The back? Why?’

The boy now squinted to the front. ‘Ah … reasons, sir.’

One of Enguf’s men appeared from the kitchens. ‘Can’t find the innkeep anywhere,’ he bellowed.

Fisher eyed the sturdy hewn planks of the front door. Come to think of it, no one had come or gone for some time. He motioned the lad onward. ‘After you.’

The boy took him out of the canted ill-fitting rear door, then immediately ducked behind a tall stack of firewood and crouched. Fisher joined him. ‘Company?’ he whispered.

‘The Countess’s men have closed the roads round the inn.’

‘Didn’t consider sharing that information?’

The lad studied him as if he was a fool. ‘Not my errand.’ He dashed for a rear outbuilding. Keeping low, Fisher followed. Entering a field of tall stubble the lad suddenly halted and Fisher saw that he faced one of the Countess’s men-at-arms. This fellow wore a loose oversized leather jack covered in iron studs that winked as they caught the moonlight. He had a crossbow levelled upon them.

‘Back inside,’ he growled through a ragged beard.

Fisher motioned to the lad. ‘He’s not with us.’

‘Doan’ care. Back inside. We’re arrestin’ you lot.’

‘What for?’ Fisher asked, almost smiling at the conceit.

But the question didn’t buy any time at all as the man spat to one side and smiled behind his beard. ‘For bein’ a damned foreigner.’

Fisher slowly raised his hands, and as he did so a coin appeared in each. Large ones that gleamed something other than silver in the moonlight. The man-at-arms’ tongue emerged to wet his lips and he peered about. He took his hand from the crossbow’s trigger bar and motioned for the coins to be tossed. Fisher threw them one after the other, then urged the lad onward with a hand pressed at his back. The man-at-arm ignored them as he held the coins up to the moon, squinting at them first through one eye then through the other.

The lad stumbled onward and kept slowing to peek back. ‘Keep going,’ Fisher whispered. Once the man was left behind, the lad scowled and hunched his shoulders.

‘I didn’t ask you to spend no coin,’ he finally complained.

Fisher understood the lad was worried he would press the debt upon his family. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he answered, quite untroubled. ‘The coins are from the Lether and worthless. The gold plating their brass is thinner than Letherii generosity — which is non-existent.’

The lad frowned, still uncertain. ‘Well …’ he finally judged. ‘All right.’

Fisher peered ahead into the night where the land fell to the coast. ‘You’re taking me to the harbour.’

‘Aye. We have him in our boat.’

‘I see.’

He was led, not to one of the fishing docks, but onward, past the built-up shore to where the waves surged among black rocks and the footing became sodden and treacherous. Here, almost invisible from shore, a tiny boat, a skiff, bobbed with the sullen gleaming waters. As they closed, a pale face rose over the worn and gouged gunwale. It was a lad even younger than the first one, fear quite plain in his wide eyes.

‘Just the two of you?’ Fisher grunted, surprised.

‘Aye.’

He was amazed they’d brought the man all this way and didn’t simply toss him overboard and call the errand finished. Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face for the lad bristled and thrust out his chin. ‘We was told to bring him!’ Then he shrugged, his outrage melting. ‘Besides, Father said he doan’t want his ghost hauntin’ us in the night.’

His ghost? Intrigued, Fisher edged down the slippery rocks to where the younger brother kept a handhold. The moon and clear night’s starlight revealed a tall form wrapped in burlap and rags in the skiff’s bottom.

‘He’s a tall one,’ Fisher observed.

‘That’s not all,’ said the lad, and he nodded to his brother, who knelt down and pulled the covering from the figure’s head.

Fisher almost plunged into the cold waves as the night revealed the black elongated features of a Tiste Andii.

How long Fisher squatted awkwardly on the rocks staring at that face he knew not. All he knew was that he lost the feeling in his feet and had to gingerly adjust his seating to work the blood back into them. Jesting gods! An Andii here on these shores! What could be this one’s purpose for being here? Not the hunt for gold, that was certain.

Then he saw how mist wafted from the figure, and how hoar frost limned the burlap. He pointed, hardly able to speak.

‘That?’ said the older lad. ‘That’s nothing. Covered in ice he was when we dropped him in. And the water in the scupper froze solid beneath him.’

Fisher could hardly credit it. ‘Ice, you say? And what of the ship — the wreck?’

The boys exchanged wondering glances and the elder stroked his chin in a gesture out of place in one so young. ‘Was none that night. Now as you say it. Maybe he fell overboard.’

Fisher did not think so. The lads, he noted, had been studying him for some time now, sullen and still fearful, though covering this with a brittle truculence. ‘Well?’ the older one demanded.

‘Well what?’

‘Will you take him from us?’

Fisher almost gaped. ‘Oh — aye. That is, yes. Certainly.’

The lads let out long pent up breaths and even shared quick smiles of success. Clearly they were in dread of the curse of this black-skinned demon out of foreign lands. Fisher motioned that he would take him from the skiff. Together, the lads awkwardly eased the bundled body up to Fisher, who set it over his shoulder. At that instant he almost tumbled all of them into the waves as from within the rag cowl at the Andii’s head a great mass of billowing hair tumbled free to lash in the contrary winds: a long mane of straight black hair shot through by streaks of white.

Andii — with streaks of silver! Fisher almost staggered. Jesting gods indeed! Could this be … him? Surely not. It must be another. He was not alone in his silvering hair, was he?

The lads pushed him on his way, grateful now to be free of any death-curse from this eerie demon thrust upon them by the water and the night. Though Fisher was an unusually strong man he staggered beneath his burden back to town; this Andii was an unusually solid fellow. He selected a modest outbuilding, a small barn, and kicked open the door to lay his burden within. Then he went to find means to start a fire to warm him.

As he returned carrying a brazier he’d taken from the front of another house, the noise of fighting erupted into the night. Angry shouts and the reports of crossbows reached him together with the clash of iron and yells of pain. A large fire arose to brighten the darkness towards the middle of town. Smoke billowed black into the night sky, obscuring the stars. Blasts of magery sounded, punching the air and flashing like munitions. Fisher recognized the Warrens of Serc and Telas, and wondered which of the three parties had brought such powerful attendants.

He sat on a stool in the doorway while his charge warmed under blankets next to the brazier. Soon Letherii soldiery emerged from the night, retreating, casting fierce glances back, stopping and turning to fire their crossbows, then running on. Marshal Teal’s men.

After them a troop of Enguf’s raiders appeared. They came jogging up the street, axes and swords loose, hugging the buildings, keeping a watchful eye behind. Spotting Fisher, a small band broke off to run his way. A voice burst out, bellowing and dismissive: ‘He’s with us, damn you all! Halt here!’

The raiders jogged past. Many bore minor wounds. Fisher took out his pipe to examine it and Enguf, sweating and puffing, came running up. ‘Bard,’ he greeted Fisher. ‘Wondered what happened to you. Thought maybe you ate a sword during the dust-up.’

‘What happened at the meet?’

The pirate angrily sheathed his sword. ‘Monumental stupidity is what happened. This Countess’s damned fool men tried to arrest us!’ The idea seemed to fill him with outrage. ‘I’m a lettered privateer. Have certificates from Elingarth! All quite legal, I assure you.’

‘I’m sure,’ Fisher supplied. Enguf ran his fingers through his beard and squinted off into the night. ‘And now you are fleeing.’

‘Fleeing!’ the man echoed, offended. He pulled at his beard, considering. ‘Ach — they got the drop on us, didn’t they? We didn’t come to sack them.’ He called to his crew members: ‘Go on! Head out!’

‘No looting?’ a woman answered scornfully.

The big man offered Fisher an apologetic shrug and said, his voice low: ‘We were leaving anyway …’

‘The arrest …?’ Fisher prompted.

The man regained his indignation. ‘Hood’s dead hand, yes! That dried up Malazan crone — she came with two mages! They’re damned pricey.’

Fisher pointed his pipe to where Enguf’s crew now kicked down doors and were in the process of throwing burning brands and lanterns into shops and houses. ‘And the fires?’

Enguf pulled at his beard again, even more offended. ‘Well … they started it, didn’t they? Set our ships on fire.’

‘I see.’

The Genabackan waved a paw. ‘It’ll slow them down. Now, we should go.’ He peered in past Fisher then leered, elbowing him. ‘Caught a pretty gal already, have you?’

‘No. A shipwreck survivor.’

Enguf grunted his disappointment. ‘Blasted wreckers. Like to hang the lot of them.’

‘It’s an Andii.’

The pirate’s bushy russet brows rose. ‘Really? That’s damned unusual. Still, good in a fight — when they fight.’

The flickering glow of flames leapt up over them and Enguf spun, cursing. He charged off, bellowing: ‘Not yet! What about the Malazans! They’re still- Oh, Mael’s damned balls!’

Fisher put away his pipe and rose. Time to find some kind of transportation — one that hadn’t yet been taken, that was. He wasn’t surprised that these Lether soldiers and Genabackans had found the locals tougher to handle than they’d anticipated. Such was the story of Assail. And it would only get worse inland.

Later, Fisher followed Teal, Malle and Enguf along a trail that wound up into woods and the rising slopes of the coastal Bone range. His donkey drew a travois on which the still unconscious Andii lay securely bound. Behind, smoke and the lurid glow of flames pockmarked Holly. The Countess’s men-at-arms now had greater worries than a small army of foreigners invading their town. Fisher was encouraged to see few soldiers and raiders carrying wounds. Clearly, these commanders knew not to fight when it wasn’t necessary. They might have been routed out of Holly, but they didn’t hang about plotting vengeance.

Ahead, the only mounted figure awaited him: Malle of Gris. She sat sidesaddle astride a donkey that could have been the sister of the one he’d found. A bodyguard of hardened old Malazan veterans in leather and mail surrounded her. They parted for him and he could well imagine every one of them once having carried a sergeant’s armband.

‘So this is our mystery Andii,’ Malle said as she fell in behind the travois. ‘Has he woken at all?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Ah. Well, on the morrow perhaps.’

‘Yes. And you, m’lady? May I impose upon you to speak?’

The woman wore a dress that consisted of many layers of severe black. Her greying hair was high on the top of her head and tumbled down her back, rather like spun iron. He imagined she must have been very handsome years ago. Black sheepskin riding gloves completed her costume. She smiled, amused, and gave Fisher a wave as if to dismiss his question. ‘Speak? Whatever of?’

‘Your reasons for embarking upon this perilous quest.’

Her hand went to her mouth to cover a quiet laugh. ‘“Perilous quest”? Now I am certain you are a bard. There is nothing perilous about this. Nor is this a quest. A mere business trip … the acquisition of operating capital, only. Nothing more. Rather boring, really.’

‘Capital for what operation — if I may ask?’

Again a courtly wave. ‘Nothing worth telling, I assure you. However, since you ask.’ She adjusted the sleeves over her slim wiry arms. As hard as pulled iron this one, Fisher reflected. The sort of widow who could outlive any number of men. ‘I come from an ancient and proud family,’ she began as they started up a rise of rock and packed mud that would take them up into the first of the coastal slopes. ‘However, our fortunes have not prospered under the Empire. What we require are funds for a new beginning. I do not know if you understand politics, bard, but it all comes down to money. Coin to purchase loyalty, to influence votes, to put seats on councils and bodies into local senates. That is why I am here. I would see my family name returned to the prestige and power it once held.’

As the trail steepened and the forest pressed in on both sides, Fisher took a moment to check on the balance of the travois and its passenger. Malle rode behind with ease, sidesaddle on the donkey, her short black boots peeping out from beneath the layered edges of her skirts. ‘And what name is that, good lady?’ he asked.

Her plucked brows rose in shock and surprise. ‘You do not know?’ Then she tilted her head, considering. ‘No — how could you? Singer, I am not Malle of Gris. I am Gris.’

Fisher bowed his head. ‘Ah. An honour.’

Again, a modest wave set aside such considerations. ‘Gris lost its self-rule long ago.’ She sighed, crossing her gloved hands on the slack leather leads of the donkey. ‘Now we are merely citizens of the Empire — free to strive to improve our station.’

‘Of course.’

The old woman’s sharp gaze now studied him. ‘And what of you? Why be here?’

He shrugged at what should be the obviousness of it. ‘I would witness how all this unfolds.’ He offered his half-roguish smile. ‘And I will be paid in gold.’

Malle did not appear impressed. Her steady gaze did not lighten. When it shifted away to examine the front of the column, he felt quite relieved: he’d faced a great number of cunning and powerful men and women but this one struck him as particularly shrewd. He wondered now at her reasons for being here; there was gold to be had, yes, and coin can be leveraged into status and influence. Yet this was also Assail, and many stories told of what else lurked in these mist-shrouded mountain forests. Stories that he knew contained a terrifying truth at their root: raw power itself.

And perhaps this was what the representative of an ancient proud family pursued in order to regain the status of ruler.

Malle now inclined her head to him in farewell and urged her donkey onward. Her guard of some ten men and women moved on with her. There came abreast of him a man in old patched clothes much travel-stained, limping and walking with the aid of a staff. His face was a patchwork of scars, the nose a mere knob of tissue and his lips twisted. Fisher realized he knew him: Holden of Cawn, mage of Serc, and a man he knew to also be an imperial Claw — a spy and operative for the throne.

Holden grinned his mutual recognition. ‘Fisher. Come for the show, hey? Count on you to be where the action is.’

Fisher shot his glance forward to Malle’s back. ‘Count on the Empire to keep an eye on its prominent citizens.’

‘Bah.’ The man spat, then grimaced as he struggled to keep up with the column. ‘Retired now. Forcefully. “Served honourably”, they said. “More than earned your time of ease.”’ He thrust a finger to his ruined face. ‘Too shop-worn and mangled to be of any more use, I say.’

Fisher smiled indulgently. ‘Yet here you are.’

‘Job’s a job. An’ this one might provide damnably well, hey?’ Fisher said nothing more. The man wasn’t about to admit to anything — if there was anything to admit. Holden gestured to the travois. ‘What’s this one’s story?’

‘Don’t know yet.’ Just on the off chance, he motioned the mage over. ‘Recognize him?’

Holden limped closer to bend down. ‘No. Got some silver in his hair. Not too many of ’em have that, I believe. Though — what do we really know ’bout the Andii anyways, hey?’

True enough. Their society and ways were alien to humans. And he, Fisher, knew all about alienness. He steadied the travois as it jerked and clattered over the stones. ‘We’d better stop soon — unless our self-appointed leader plans to march us into the ground?’

‘Naw. Just a half-hike to put some room ’tween us and Holly. We’ll set up camp soon enough, I imagine.’ He rubbed his leg, wincing. ‘Better be, anyways. M’pin’s killing me an’ us hardly started.’

The travois almost tipped as one branch climbed a large rock. Fisher saw that he’d have to spend much more attention on it. He nodded his farewell to Holden. ‘I hope to sit down for a long talk.’

The mage nodded. ‘Till then.’

Walking alongside the travois, Fisher studied his unconscious charge while the Andii rocked and jerked in the bindings that held him wrapped in place. And what of you, friend? What if you never regain consciousness? He’d heard of such cases — men and women half drowned who never awoke. Theirs was a slow death of starvation. How many days should he wait before granting the mercy of a hand pressed over the nose and mouth?

Do not make me wait so long that I grow tired of all my poetic speculation, friend.

* * *

In the end it was all so very much easier than Shimmer had imagined. She simply gave commands and they were carried out. At first she was loath to give any orders at all; her tone and wording was far from commanding. She almost winced as she spoke, as if expecting at any moment to be challenged, or defied.

Yet none of these imaginings arose. Guardsmen and women saluted and things got done. No one asked where K’azz was, or why he was not here to voice the commands himself. Still, whenever a Guard answered, ‘Yes, Commander,’ she could not help but almost glance behind, as if expecting to find him there.

Blues crossed the Sea of Chimes to the other main Guard fortress, Recluse, to ready his command for transport. Shimmer organized things here in Haven. Of the Guard, she had her usual command, the Second Company. However, she remained sensitive to the First Company, Skinner’s old unit, once disavowed by K’azz but now returned to the Guard. To show she bore no grudges she selected Black the Lesser to accompany her. And so was he reunited with his brother, Black the Elder. And Bars, of course, of Cal-Brinn’s command, would guide them. Jacinth, once Skinner’s lieutenant, was now in command of the First and would remain behind to work with Tarkhan.

Of the remaining Guard mages, she would take Petal and Gwynn. Blues himself was of course a skilled mage of D’riss, the Warren of stone and earth. And there was always Cowl, once High Mage of the Guard, though she knew she could not count upon the man. Mara, Lor-sinn, Red, Shell and Sour would remain, leaving her confident that Stratem would be well defended. She also understood that Blues planned to leave Recluse under Fingers’ command. The decision left her uneasy; she’d always considered Fingers a touch unreliable. And his sojourn in Korel seemed to have only worsened his … eccentricities. But it was Blues’ call and so she did not object.

She sent messenger after messenger into the vast interior of Stratem, searching for K’azz to inform him of the impending journey, and still no answer came. She sent another message via the fallen brothers and sisters of the Guard, the Brethren. Her unease mounted with each day that passed without word. How could they journey without him? Moreover, the best vessel to be had was hardly adequate: a fat merchantman more suited to hauling cargoes of lumber or pots of wine. Yet it was all that was available — she ordered it loaded and victualled.

The day before they were to depart K’azz had still not appeared. All the messengers had returned; none had found him. That night Shimmer laid out her replacement coat of mail on a table and oiled it thoroughly, as she did her whipsword, in preparation for the ocean crossing. Once they landed it would be back to simple rubbing with sand and such to remove any rust.

She worked well into the night, the wide front of the fortress smithy open to the cool night. The candles of tallow burned down around her, providing no more light than the dim fading coals of the forge. She was rolling up the coat in its covering of oiled leather when a voice spoke from the darkness: ‘You should get some sleep.’

She spun. The name on her tongue faded away when she saw Petal come shuffling forward out of the night. His heavy lips were pursed and his gaze was directed down at his hands clasped across his wide girth.

‘Not whom you were expecting,’ he murmured, embarrassed.

She smiled despite her disappointment and anger at herself for her reaction. ‘No — but always welcome, Petal. What brings you round?’

The big man sighed. ‘It is my fate to always be the man women aren’t expecting.’

She had heard that he and the fiery-tempered Mara, recently united, were now not getting along. She turned to her gear to hide her smile, and said, ‘Women are allowed to be just as great fools as men.’

‘You are too kind, Shimmer.’

Straightening her expression, she turned back to him. ‘So — cannot sleep?’

‘No. Sleep, and dreaming, is always problematic for us practitioners of Mockra.’

Mockra was the Warren of manipulating thoughts and the mind. ‘I understand.’

‘So — you may sleep. I will keep watch. And if … anything should happen I will send for you, of course.’

She tipped her head in acceptance. ‘How can I refuse such a kind offer? My thanks, Petal.’

He leaned back against a post then jumped when the horseshoes and chains hung there jangled and rang. ‘Certainly,’ he managed, and smoothed the front of his dark robes.

Shimmer felt the urge to give the sweet fellow a peck on the cheek. ‘Good night.’

‘Ah, yes. Good night.’

The next morning she found her best shirts, gambeson, and long tabard laid out by her servants. This would be the last day of such pampering, as they would be leaving all the servants, grooms, and maids behind in the fortress. She splashed her face, saw to her toilet, then dressed. Gwynn, who had somehow fallen into the role of her unofficial second-in-command, awaited her in the Great Hall.

The dour white-haired mage had returned to his typical dress of hues of charcoal: a long coal-black shirt over midnight trousers. And his expression was in keeping with a priest of Hood, though he was not.

‘How are we doing?’ she asked, and took a bite from a scrap of yesterday’s bread.

‘We are behind, of course.’

Taking up a glass of watered wine, she invited him to follow her out. ‘Oh? What is it now?’

‘The water casks. We are still short. More were promised by the cooper but they haven’t arrived.’

‘We’ll just have to make do.’

‘We are too low on salted meat as well.’

‘Why am I not surprised?’

‘And dyed red cloth.’

‘Red cloth?’

‘For the tabards,’ he explained.

‘Well, some will have to go without.’

They descended the stone and dirt way that led from the fortress to Haven Town. Shimmer nodded to tradesmen, labourers and farmers as they passed. Guardsmen and women saluted her. She cast a glance sidelong to the elder mage. Did the man enjoy being the bearer of ill tidings? Did he relish failure and gloom? Or was he perhaps merely excruciatingly careful? In all the time spent with him in Jacuruku and since, she had yet to decide.

‘We’ll take whatever we can get,’ she told him.

‘Which, I must point out again, is not enough.’

‘Are there enough casks and nails in all of Haven Town?’

The mage contented himself with rubbing his jowls and grumbling into his hand. Shimmer smiled tightly; that should hold him for a time.

She found a crowd of the Avowed of the Crimson Guard awaiting her at the waterfront. The sight sent a flush of gratitude and affection through her. At first she’d feared she’d been too selfish in her choice of those would accompany the expedition: personnel from her old command predominated. No doubt, however, the other Avowed understood her preference for the men and women she had commanded for decades and knew so well. And here they all were, assembled to see them off.

She embraced many as she passed and saluted old soldiers of the Second Investiture like Ambrose and Trench. She shook hands with a glum Tarkhan, formally handing over command of Fortress Haven.

‘Good hunting,’ he told her. ‘Come back with Cal.’

‘I shall.’ Leaning close, she murmured, ‘Any sign?’

He gave a minute jerk of his head. ‘None.’

Damn the man! He ought to be here. This was inexcusable, and, if anything, it strengthened her faith in the difficult decision she had made. Negligence. Pure negligence.

She caught Gwynn’s eye as she shook hands and answered salutes of farewell. ‘We are all aboard?’

‘Aye.’

‘Very good.’ She motioned him up the gangway of their hired merchantman, Mael’s Greetings, then faced the crowded dock and gave one last long salute. ‘Farewell, brothers and sisters. We will return with the Fourth — then we will all be reunited once again. And at full strength!’

A raucous cheer answered her. She raised her hand in salute once more, and climbed the gangway.

The ship’s master met her on deck. ‘Cast off, Master Ghelath.’

The pot-bellied Falari bowed. ‘Aye, aye.’ He stomped off, pointing and shouting. The crew, mostly Falari and Seven Cities outcasts, all sprang into motion. Bare feet slapped the decking.

Bars stood nearby, leaning against the side, and she reached out to grab his wrist. ‘About time, yes Bars?’

The big man returned the clasp. He was smiling, but his mouth remained grim and hard. ‘Yes, Shimmer. About time.’

Others of her new command lingered at the side as well: Cole, Amatt, Lean, Sept, Keel, Reed, Turgal. She answered their greetings then climbed up to the raised stern deck to watch the receding forested shore. She wondered whether he’d just now arrived — moments too late. Would she see his tall lean form on the dock?

‘We are headed east round the Cape of the Stone Army?’ someone asked behind her and she turned to the pilot, an old man hunched over the arm of the side-mounted tiller.

The eastern cape of the Sea of Chimes took its name from the curious formations of octagonal stone pillars that crowded the coast and extended out to sea. The forest of towers marching up out of the waves resembled to some an immense army cursed into eternal petrification. ‘Yes, eastward.’

‘Then on. To Assail lands, hey?’

‘Yes.’

A strange conspiratorial look came to the old man’s lined and wind-darkened face. ‘Havvin’s the name,’ he offered, and he gave her a knowing wink.

Shimmer was taken aback, but before she could frame an answer another voice spoke, its familiar tone grating like a jagged blade down her neck: ‘How nice to be off on another mission.’ She turned to face Cowl.

‘I thought you were travelling with Blues.’

‘Hardly. The man won’t even speak to me.’

Shimmer leaned against the side, returned to studying the passing shore. She felt, rather than saw, him join her there. ‘He’s not coming,’ he murmured, bringing his head close.

‘So you claim.’

‘He’s hiding.’

She glanced at him, saw the ravaged, lined skin of his face, so pale and yet so hardened, resembling dried parchment; his hanging moustache, thin and tatty; the pearly scars glistening at his neck. His pale hazel eyes glared as if heated by the blazing fevers that seemed about to consume him. ‘Hiding from what?’

‘The truth.’

‘And what truth is that?’

‘That we are cursed and he is responsible.’

‘Cursed? You mean the vow.’ She thought of the inhuman Rutana in Jacuruku and what that one had said regarding their vow. ‘Yes, I’ve heard that as well. Cursed in what way?’

The man smiled, or attempted to: he pulled his lips back from his tiny teeth and raised a hand to shake a finger in negation. But like his efforts at a leer, or a knowing grin, the gesture was ruined by his tattered gloves and blackened, broken fingernails. Nails, Shimmer knew, that had clawed their way out of a mound on the grounds of an Azath House. The thought shook her and confirmed her impression of the man: insane. Driven beyond common reason.

‘I will not do his job for him,’ he said. ‘If he chooses to keep you in the dark then take your complaints to him.’

‘Then that is between us.’ She waved him off.

His inarticulate snarl told her that her dismissal infuriated him just as much as she hoped. Yet he did go, his walk stiff with outrage. She leaned once more against the side and returned to scanning the rocky forested shore as it passed. Show yourself, K’azz, she urged the coastline. Walk out and wave. You must come with us — how can we possibly leave without you? Yet we must go. Cal-Brinn has already waited far too long for rescue. And there are questions to be answered.

She watched through noon and on into the late afternoon while the shadows deepened and the sun disappeared behind her into the western horizon. Sept brought her a bowl of stew and a crust of bread which she ate while still standing at the rail.

You stupid stubborn fool, she sent to the shore. You have to come. How could you not? But if you refuse — then I will discover what the Queen of Dreams promised awaited us in Assail. Yet … as the one who invoked the vow, what if these things can only be revealed to you?

She sighed and scraped the wooden spoon round the bowl. Surely he must have considered that. Why allow them to depart on a useless errand? Then she castigated herself: rescuing Cal-Brinn and the Fourth would not be useless, girl! Finally, she pushed off from the side and went below to find an open bunk.

Damn the man for leaving it to her to decide!

Two days later they reached Fortress Recluse. They loaded more supplies and equipment, then Blues and his Blade of chosen Avowed boarded. They set sail that eve. Four days later they were nearing their rounding of the cape. Shimmer was asleep in a hammock when a call from the night watch woke her: ‘Fire on the slate shore! Bonfire ashore!’

She lay half awake for a time, still groggy with sleep. Then a sudden suspicion, almost like a breath from one of the Brethren in her ear: what if …?

She swung her legs from the hammock and ran for the companionway, barefoot, wearing only her thin cotton longshirt and trousers. She gained the deck to find it abandoned, empty but for the night watch. ‘Why are we not investigating?’ she demanded.

‘It’s only a fire,’ the sailor said, and he eyed her up and down as the wind pressed the thin fabric to her form. She cursed the man inwardly and went to the pilot on duty: not Havvin now, but a younger apprentice. ‘Turn for shore,’ she told him.

The tall skinny fellow peered down his nose at her. ‘Only the ship’s master can order a change in course.’

‘It just so happens I’m his master,’ she snarled. ‘Now turn for shore.’

But the young fellow only gripped the faded wood of the tiller arm all the tighter. ‘No, ma’am. The slate shore is far too dangerous.’

Oh, for the love of all the dead gods! She drew a deep breath and called in her best battlefield bellow: ‘Master Ghelath! You are required on deck!’

In a few minutes the man himself appeared, puffing, scratching his wide belly, his bare chest a dense thatch of russet hair. ‘What is this?’ he growled, bleary-eyed.

‘She wants us to head for shore,’ the pilot complained.

The Master squinted at the night-hidden coast as if to confirm that it was even there. Then he turned on her. ‘Are you a fool? We’d be stove in. Those are the Cursed Soldiers. No ship can come within a league of them.’

‘Nevertheless,’ she answered through clenched teeth, ‘I wish to investigate that fire.’ She pointed over the stern where the flickering orange and gold glow was already disappearing into the gloom.

Ghelath spat over the side, then waved a hairy hand to dismiss the entire matter. ‘Ach! Well, it’s gone now, isn’t it? Too late.’ He turned to go.

‘Turn us round. Drop anchor. Do whatever is necessary.’

Ghelath just waved the hand over his shoulder as he descended the stairs. ‘Too dangerous.’

Shimmer crossed her arms, called, ‘Gwynn …’

The mage appeared amid-deck. He carried a tall staff of ebony wood. This he stamped to the planking and black flames burst to life, rippling all up and down the stave. The sailors on night watch scrambled away.

Master Ghelath slowly remounted the short set of stairs that led to the stern deck, pulling at his long grizzled beard. He cleared his throat and addressed the apprentice pilot in a weak voice: ‘See if you can’t get us a little closer, Levin.’

The lad didn’t move. He licked his lips. ‘I can’t — that is … I don’t know these waters well enough …’

Hoarse laughter drew everyone’s attention. The old master pilot, Havvin, all bones and pale skin, came edging past Gwynn. He pushed his apprentice aside, offered Shimmer a broad wink. ‘Rouse the lads, boy. Prepare to bring us round.’

The apprentice rang the bell, clearly relieved that his master had taken over. In a flurry of stamping feet the rest of the crew came pouring up on to the deck. ‘Man the lines!’ Levin shouted.

Havvin pushed the tiller arm over. ‘Have to lose headway, don’t you think?’ he directed his apprentice.

The lad nodded frantic assent, shouted: ‘Reef the mains’l! Lower the fores’l!’

Ghelath watched silently, one fist closed on his ragged beard. After a moment he caught the old pilot’s eye and pointed to the bow. Havvin nodded a brief acknowledgement.

Blues came up to the stern deck to stand next to Shimmer. He too was peering off over the side, to the glow of the distant bonfire.

‘Eyes up front, don’t you think, Levin?’ Havvin murmured, adjusting the tiller arm slightly.

The lad swallowed, nodding. ‘Aye. Four lookouts on the bows!’

Shimmer leaned close to Gwynn. ‘Black flames?’ she murmured.

He shrugged. ‘Thought it would be impressive.’

Ghelath shook his head. ‘I still don’t like it, Havvin. Lose all the canvas. Prepare the sweeps.’

Havvin nodded. ‘Aye, aye.’ He gestured to Levin.

The lad drew a great breath, shouted, ‘Lower the yardarm! Un-ship the sweeps!’

The crew scrambled to obey. The heavy yardarm scraped down the mainmast. Long thin oars that had been stored along the hull, just above the decking, were set into holes beneath the top railing.

‘Man the sweeps,’ Blues called down to Bars, who gave his curt assent and gestured to the gathered Avowed. They brushed the sailors aside to take the oars.

‘Dead stop,’ Shimmer called.

The Avowed levered the oars straight down then swept them back, grunting and heaving. The vessel slowed so suddenly that Shimmer had to take a step for balance against the loss of motion. The Master’s thick matted brows shot up in amazement and wonder. Havvin hooted his laughter.

All became quiet but for the splash of the waves, and, distantly, the roar of an unseen surf.

‘Ahead slow,’ the Master called, then cocked an eye to Shimmer, who motioned for him to take over.

Blues crossed to Havvin, who was pushing and heaving on the thick tiller arm. ‘Need any help, old timer?’

‘Nay. A gentle touch is all’s needed. Like caressing a woman.’

Blues shot an amused glance to Shimmer, who suppressed a smile. ‘We’re in good hands then,’ Blues supplied.

‘Oh, I could tell stories,’ Havvin answered, and he cackled his mad laughter once again.

‘Point starboard!’ a lookout called.

The lashing of the tiller arm creaked as Havvin edged it a touch over. The Master still held his beard in one fist, and now he reached out and clenched the stern deck railing in a grip so tight and white it looked to Shimmer as if not even the strongest impact could dislodge him.

Yells of surprise and horror suddenly went up as something immense and night-black loomed out of the murk. One of the soldiers this was, pillar of rock all webbed in spray, seaweed and barnacles where it met the waves. Its top stood too tall to see and its girth was a third of their vessel’s length.

Levin turned to cast an appalled look to his master, who merely smiled his mad grin, then shot Shimmer another wink. Calls sounded from the lookouts and she spun: the bonfire had come once more into view.

‘Lower the launch!’ Master Ghelath shouted.

‘Get us closer,’ Shimmer called.

‘Close enough!’ he answered, fierce. ‘I’ll not risk everyone for this.’

Shimmer had to acknowledge something of the soundness of that and so with her teeth clenched tight she sent a curt nod to Bars.

Bars grasped a sailor by the nape of his neck to set him on to his oar, then ran to where sailors were readying the long slender launch. He called out names to accompany him as he went.

Mael’s Greetings slowly edged closer to the pillars emerging in ever denser numbers from the waves. The sight reminded Shimmer of descriptions of the dolmens of Tien, except that those were carved and built by humans. This formation was so immense, and appeared to be rooted so far below the ocean, it could only be the work of the gods, or of nature itself.

Some of the pillars were quite short, hardly topping the surf, and were washed by the larger breakers. It was on one of these short pillars, standing just above the waves, that the bonfire blazed.

As Mael’s Greetings drifted, a figure came into view standing before the licking flames of the fire. A tall thin human shape, motionless, waiting, and Shimmer felt a shiver of recognition run through her. He’d come. At the last possible place he’d found a way to meet them. K’azz. She was certain.

Rowed by six Avowed, including Bars, the launch surged through the waves and onward into the dark.

‘Turn us away a touch, Master Havvin,’ Ghelath murmured.

‘You worry too much,’ the old man grumbled, but he obeyed. The bowsprit began to edge to the north. They waited. The vessel rocked strongly in the rough seas. The surf roared loudly now, all the more terrifying as it was unseen but for the greenish phosphor glow where the waves crashed and foamed against the base of the cliffs.

‘Put up some sail,’ Master Ghelath ordered. ‘We need headway or we’ll swamp.’

‘Very well,’ Havvin answered, and raised his chin to Levin. The lad cupped his hands to his mouth.

‘Raise the fores’l!’

The triangular foresail edged up and billowed, catching the wind, and the bows pulled over even further. Master Ghelath leaned forward over the stern deck rail. ‘Row, damn you!’

The Avowed, who had paused to watch for the launch’s return, started guiltily and heaved on the oars. Next to Shimmer, Blues chuckled. ‘Can’t let them forget that,’ he murmured.

She squinted off over the stern. ‘We’re not making too much headway, are we?’

‘They’ll catch up,’ he assured her. ‘Or break their oars trying.’

After a time a long low shape detached itself from the dark blue gloom of the waves. Sailors hailed the launch and threw lines. Shimmer went to the side. A rope ladder was heaved over. Sitting amid the Avowed, dressed in old ragged travelling leathers, was K’azz. Catching her gaze, he offered a rueful half-smile, as if mocking himself, and saluted her.

She just shook her head.

When all were aboard, and the launch stored away atop the deck, Shimmer faced her commander. He looked travel-worn but hale — as hale as the man ever appeared now. His thin greying hair blew about his skull, the shape of which showed through. ‘What were you thinking?’ she accused him.

‘You’re going,’ he said, and he peered about at the gathered Avowed.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘No matter what. We must.’

‘No matter what,’ he echoed, slowly nodding. ‘Yes. Well. I wish you hadn’t. But I should have known you’d call my bluff, Shimmer.’ And he inclined his head, acknowledging his defeat, and turned to take Bars’ hand before moving on to greet all.

Blues edged close to Shimmer and the two watched their commander speaking with each Avowed. ‘He really didn’t want us to go,’ he murmured.

‘Yes.’

‘That makes me wonder, then,’ he said, ‘just what it is that awaits us.’

Shimmer had been thinking the same thing. What could be so terrifying, or dangerous? Then the name of the rocks where K’azz had been awaiting them came to her: the Cape of the Stone Army. Also known as the Cursed Soldiers.

She closed her eyes against the night and sent a prayer to Burn: dear ancient one, please let this not be an omen you send us. If these stone soldiers be cursed, then let that be the end of your anger. Send no doom upon us. In answer to your forbearance, I offer my dream. The wish I have held within my heart all these years. It I would sacrifice to you. A future for a future. This is my pledge.

So do I vow.

* * *

Kyle threw himself into the exhausting duties of day-to-day sailing. There was work enough aboard the Lady’s Luck for everyone, though the Stormguard held themselves apart, viewing such labour as beneath them. He did not suffer from such delusions of self-importance. He avoided the ten ex-Chosen, which suited them as they had only contempt for all outlanders. Indeed, they kept themselves apart from everyone: they stood wrapped in their thick blue woollen robes, spears never far from their fists. The regular working crew of the Mare vessel were torn between admiration for them as Stormguard, and a growing resentment at their arrogant presumption of superiority.

For his part, Kyle suffered no such quandary. His answer to their scowls and slit-eyed hard stares was a quiet smile of amusement, as if they’d become a joke — something they no doubt suspected and thus dreaded to be the truth.

His companion for much of this time was Reuth, Tulan’s nephew. In terms of seamanship, the lad was far behind even him. The Mare sailors were dismissive of the lad, seeing no worth in anyone so woefully ignorant. Kyle, however, remembered his own abrupt introduction to the sea: he’d grown up on the steppes, far inland, and had never even seen a ship until his fourteenth summer.

The lad tagged along with him during watches and while he crewed. He kept up a peppering of questions regarding the outside world. A week into the crossing, perhaps halfway, Kyle drew the task of inspecting the lines, their splices and ends, searching for breaks and any dangerous fraying. He sat near the bow in the half-shade of the high prow while he sorted through the coils and bundles. Reuth sat with him. This day the lad was uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn.

Kyle glanced up from studying a line of woven linen. ‘There is something troubling you?’ The lad would not meet his gaze; instead, he stared off down the long gangway that ran the length of the Lady’s Luck. ‘One of the crew kicked you aside? Cussed you up and down?’

Reuth gave a shrug of his thin shoulders. ‘No worse than usual. No, they’re not so bad. Remember, Tulan’s the ship’s master.’

‘Not one to coddle you too closely, though.’

Reuth laughed without humour. ‘No. That’s for certain.’

Kyle set the linen line aside and turned to another, which appeared to be woven of hair. He inspected it more closely and was surprised, and a touch unnerved, to see that it was not horse hair, as he had presumed, but human hair.

‘Pay no attention to what these ragged sailors say, Reuth. Continue studying your maps. You could become a navigator, or a pilot. That’s a rare skill. One these hands can’t even imagine.’ He didn’t add that he himself was barely literate — it was only after joining the Guard that he learned to read and write, just.

‘No. It’s not them.’

Kyle pulled on the woven line — it was strong. Perhaps it was somehow special; that is, special beyond the sacrifice made by the women of Mare for the welfare of their husbands and sons. Perhaps it was employed in the ship’s rituals surrounding the invocations of Ruse. ‘Not them?’ he asked absently.

‘No. It’s you.’

He raised his gaze to the lad to find him casting quick concerned glances his way. He lowered the line. ‘Oh? Me? How so?’

The lad licked his lips then cleared his throat into a fist. ‘You are an outlander. You served with the Malazans, yet you are not of them. You have the look and bearing of what we would call a barbarian, an inhabitant of the Wastes — your sun- and wind-darkened hue, your black hair and moustache.’

Kyle eased himself back, straightening slightly. ‘Yes? So?’

Reuth hesitated, then pushed on: ‘You carry that sword with you at all times. You never leave it aside in a bunk or a chest. You keep it hidden from sight, wrapped and covered …’

‘Yes? So?’

‘Well …’ The lad peered warily about then lowered his voice. ‘There are those on board who say you might be Whiteblade.’

Whiteblade. So there it was. No longer the Whiteblade, but just Whiteblade itself. A title, or epithet. How things change and transform in the retelling as each speaker slips in one or two embellishments to make tales their own — or to move them in the direction they think they ought to go.

‘You’re doing it again,’ the lad said.

Kyle studied the lad: he appeared serious, worried even, hunched forward as he was, his eyes searching. ‘Doing what?’

Reuth pointed to his neck. Kyle lowered his gaze and jerked a touch ruefully. The lad was right: he’d gotten hold of the amber stone he kept round his neck and was rubbing it as he thought.

‘What is it?’

‘Just an old worn piece of amber. The gift of a friend long ago.’

‘So — are you him? Whiteblade?’

He chose to give an unconcerned shrug. ‘And what if I was?’

Reuth leaned even closer. His long unwashed hair fell forward and he brushed it back with an impatient gesture that was a habit of his. ‘Then you must be careful. There are those here who would like to kill you, I think.’

‘Thank you, Reuth. I’ll have a care.’

The lad nodded earnestly. Edging forward even closer, he pressed his hands together and touched his fingers to his nose. ‘Ah … so … is it true what I hear?’

Kyle simply shook his head, smiling slightly. He picked up the sailor’s dirk he’d taken as his own, honed to a thin sickle-moon, and set to cutting a hemp line to trim it.

Reuth sighed his disappointment and sat back. ‘Well, I had to try.’

‘Thank you for the warning, Reuth. Now I think that the less time you are seen with me the better for you.’

At first the lad look stricken — as if he’d been told to go away — but then the wider implications came to him and he nodded once more. ‘Ah! I see. Well, don’t you worry about me. Tulan’s the Master, remember.’

Kyle waved him away with the short blade. ‘Go on with you now.’

Winking, the lad clambered to his feet and ambled off.

Kyle worked on, unweaving the coarse hemp fibres for a splice. This he could manage with his hands alone and his gaze shifted sidelong down the length of the galley to the raised stern deck where Tulan stood wrapped in layered robes that hung to his ankles. Nearby lingered a knot of the ex-Stormguard in their blue cloaks. With them was Storval, who made no secret of his antagonism. He’d often seen them together and it occurred to him that the lad was right: he would have to keep a closer eye on them. Any deep water crossing is a risky undertaking at the best of times. Tulan might be the Master, but ships are dangerous places. A man can fall overboard any time. Even by accident.